


Operation: Ordinary

by incorrectbatfam



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24667039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: Two drastically different worlds collide when twelve-year-old Jon Kent’s parents volunteer to take in a prince who is no longer safe in his home country.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 17
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU based loosely on the Disney Channel movie Princess Protection Program.
> 
> I adjusted Damian and Jon's age gap so Damian is 13 and Jon is 12 for this particular story.

“I hereby declare that every man, woman, and child in this room shall be executed for their crimes against the throne.”

The elderly king of Nanda Parbat whirled around, brandishing his silver blade at any person who came within his radius. A couple of cleaning ladies cowered behind their supply carts and even a few of the lower-level soldiers stuck closer to the exit.

He pointed the tip at a young woman with long brown hair in a green-and-black gown. “I refuse to have insubordination within my kingdom,  _ especially _ not from my own family. If that means I must use the death penalty, I will not hesitate.”

“Father, listen to us,” the woman said. “You are unwell. It is only wise that the throne be passed to the next eligible member of the–”

“Silence!”

With a swish of his weapon, he tore the silk sleeve of the princess’s dress, like a warning.

“I am as fit to rule as I have always been, Talia,” he said. “I am more fit than anybody in this palace, especially you and your bumbling excuse of a groom.”

A boy no older than thirteen peeked from where he was hiding behind a Ming vase in the very same throne room. She subtly waved for him to stay back while still keeping an eye on her father.

“Your mind is deteriorating,” she said. “It is only natural with age. Please, Father, let us help you run the kingdom properly. It is what the people need.”

“You plotted behind my back to usurp me. It is treason to the highest degree. I must teach all the insurgents a lesson.” 

The man snapped his fingers. “Commander Todd, if you will do us the honors.”

“Yes, your highness.”

A young assassin, veiled by shadows and a red hood, stepped into the light. 

“Consider yourself lucky, daughter,” said the king. “You will perish at the hands of one of my finest warriors.”

Not an ounce of emotion shown on the commander’s face, he lifted his heavy katana almost robotically, like he was a puppet on a string. The sword came sailing down; the boy behind the vase moved before he could even think. He sprinted across the waxed tile, sliding to a stop in front of his mother, arm raised in an effort to block it. The blade sliced through his clothes and into his skin.

“DAMIAN!”

The boy turned to Talia, offering her his hand despite the bleeding cut. “Mother, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, but you need to get out of here.” Though there was fear in her eyes, her voice remained steady and stern as she grabbed a battle axe from a nearby glass case.

“But Mother, I am eligible to fight. I can–”

“Run, Damian.  _ Run _ ,” she repeated. 

With one final glance over his shoulder, Damian sprinted towards the spiraling staircase of the centuries-old palace. His feet slid along the shiny floors, threatening to make him slip and fall. He clutched his bleeding arm to his chest. He ran until he slammed straight into someone’s chest.

Strong hands helped Damian up and he breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the person’s face.

“Father, Pennyworth,” he said. “Grandfather found out your plans and is taking it out on mother. We have to help her.”

Damian looked between his father and his father’s butler, who had set down his serving tray in favor of the collapsable rifle hidden under his suit jacket.

“Master Bruce, I can keep King Ra’s and Commander Jason busy,” the butler said.

“You’re a godsend, Alfred,” said Bruce. “Please, be careful. Ra’s… he isn’t…”

“I know, sir. You know what to do with Master Damian.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Bruce sighed. He grabbed Damian’s uninjured hand. “Come on, son.”

Damian pulled away from his father’s grip, screaming, “No! I have to help Mother!”

Bruce grabbed his son's shoulder and gave a firm yet gentle squeeze. “You can help our family by doing exactly as you’re told.”

The sound of gunshots and glass shattering echoed from the throne room down the hall. 

“Please, Father,” the boy’s voice edged on pleading.

Bruce’s expression hardened. “Your safety comes first.”

_ FWOOM! _

The throne room exploded in a fiery orange cloud. Thrown out of the room, Talia’s back hit the family portrait on the wall. Her dress glowed with burning embers. 

“We have to leave  _ now _ .” Bruce dragged Damian towards the staircase; the last thing he saw was his grandfather pouncing on his mother and her returning with a parry.

Bruce slipped a broom through the door handles and grabbed a walkie-talkie hidden in a potted plant before hurriedly guiding Damian along.

As they ran, Bruce spoke into the radio. “Agent 37, Damian and I are en route. Prepare for immediate evacuation.”

It crackled before a simple response came out.

_ “Copy that.” _

“Father, where are we going?” Damian asked as they made their way to an open courtyard under the hot sun.

“Not ‘we’,” Bruce said. “I have to stay and hold down the fort.”

“What?!” the boy exclaimed. “It’s too dangerous. I’m not leaving without you.”

“This isn’t your choice. Your grandfather’s outbursts are part of something much bigger and I don’t want you to get tangled up in it. Nanda Parbat needs stable, mature leaders—they need me and your mother.”

A tiny whimper escaped the boy’s lips and a single teardrop formed in the corner of his eyes. Bruce crouched down and swiped it away with his thumb.

“Damian, son, look at me,” he said.

Damian looked at him, focusing on taking in every one of his father’s features, from the man’s distinct jawline to ocean eyes to broad shoulders that so clearly held the fate of a nation on them. 

“Whatever happens, know that your mother and I love you very, very much. No politics is ever going to change that,” Bruce said. 

He rolled up his sleeve and removed a gold wristwatch with a black leather strap. Roman numerals lined the circumference of the clock and the two needles pointed to the time—12:00 exactly. Painted behind the hour and minute hand were white chrysanthemums. Bruce carefully secured the watch on Damian’s far slimmer wrist. The sound of a helicopter engine grew closer by the second.

Bruce said, “As long as you remain safe—wherever you may be in the world—Nanda Parbat will stand strong. Do you understand?”

Damian nodded. Bruce pulled him close in one final hug. Damian closed his eyes and took in the scent of Chinese silk and French cologne. 

The steady beat of the helicopter blade was now right above them, hovering in place. A rope ladder dropped from the passenger’s side along with a young man in a blue-gray uniform with sweeping dark hair, escrima sticks strapped to his back, and various different holsters and harnesses on his body. In the pilot’s seat was a dark-skinned guy in a yellow suit and helmet.

“You must be Prince Damian,” the man said to the boy. “The name’s Dick Grayson. I’m gonna get you outta here.”

With one final nod, Bruce gently nudged Damian forward. Damian took the agent’s outstretched hand, which was so much bigger compared to his. 

_ BANG! _

A bullet whizzed by, mere inches in front of Damian’s face, and struck the fountain several meters away. 

Standing on a balcony, wielding Alfred Pennyworth’s rifle, was none other than Ra’s Al Ghul’s top fighter, Jason Todd. Before he could fire again, Dick drew a semi-automatic pistol from his belt and fired a sequence of shots at the other young man. One of them struck Jason’s shoulder and it bought just enough time for them to climb into the armored craft. 

As they took to the skies, Damian watched as soldiers flooded the gardens and ambushed his father. The boy’s index finger traced the rim of the wristwatch. He winced when a stinging pain shot up his arm, drawing his attention back to the laceration from before.

“Here, let me help with that. Duke, set course for home base.”

“Roger that,” the pilot replied. “Estimated time of arrival: three and a half hours.”

Damian glanced up just as Dick made his way to him with a first aid kit. 

“How are you holding up, your majesty?” asked Dick.

“Tt.” Damian went back to looking out the window as the agent cleaned and bandaged the cut. “I should be helping them, not running like some coward.”

Dick sighed. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything about this royalty stuff, but right now your only two options are to hide until this blows over or get thrown in a jail cell with your parents. If the second one happens—if Ra’s goes completely mad with power—it’ll become this huge messy international conflict. I know you don’t like it, but it’s better this way.” 

The young prince just stared blankly out the window as the tiny Himalayan country faded into the distance, and he could only pray to the heavens above that this wouldn’t be the last he’d see of his home.


	2. Chapter 2

Damian had probably swatted more mosquitos in the past hour than he did the past thirteen years of his life. Granted, he never needed to do it before because the royal exterminators did their job properly. 

“Stupid disease-spreading pests,” he muttered as he shook another one off his hand.

“They’re not that bad, your highness,” Dick said.

They traipsed through the jungle island’s undergrowth, Dick hacking way the vegetation with a small pocketknife and Damian carefully observed the agent’s every action. The boy watched his every step carefully, not wanting to ruin his expensive garments. The helicopter was long gone, having flown to a hangar somewhere else.

They came to a black iron door carved into the side of a cliff. Dick carefully pressed his hand on a rock beside it, and it slid down to reveal a high-tech panel. The agent scanned his ID card against it. The doors slid open like an elevator and Dick gestured for Damian to step in what looked like an empty room. The boy offhandedly wondered if this was the bunker that he was going to hide it, and if so, where all the typical bunker supplied were. It reminded him of a slightly more polished version of the castle’s stone dungeons.

The sudden downward movement startled Damian out of his thoughts. Dick hummed a random pop song as they descended farther underground, saying nothing to the prince. 

After thirty seconds, Damian asked, annoyed, “Will you tell me where we are going?”

Dick held up one finger like a “hold on” as he brought a phone to his ear. Damian scoffed, offended. Not even his parents brushed him off or asked him to wait, let alone a commoner he had just met. 

“Yes, we’re on our way down,” Dick said, ignoring the prince’s pouting. 

There was a pause as someone else spoke. Damian rolled his eyes.

“No, I didn’t get your coffee,” the agent said. “Look, it’s not my fault their country doesn’t have a Starbuck’s… There’s a machine in the break room, just use that.”

Dick hung up just as the elevator came to a sudden halt.

The doors opened and Damian’s eyes couldn’t help but widen a little at the sight in front of him. People milled about in what seemed like almost like an underground shopping mall. Sitting at the front desk with a computer and stack of files was a redheaded woman in a wheelchair around the same age as Dick. 

“Tim’s mad you didn’t get his coffee,” the woman said, a smile on her lips.

“Let him be mad,” Dick responded. “I need you to pull up the files on Damian Al Ghul.”

“That him?” the woman pointed to Damian. “I thought he’d be taller.”

The agent shook his head, chuckling. “Yeah, me too. Anyway, we need to get him processed and relocated as soon as possible. No doubt Ra’s league of assassins is gonna catch on soon.”

The woman hummed and typed something on her computer. Behind her, a printer spitted out a stack of papers. She stapled them together and handed them to Dick.

“You’re the best, Babs.” Dick shot her a pair of finger guns, earning him a playful eye roll. 

As they made their way down the winding, brightly lit halls, Damian couldn’t help but peer curiously at some of the people they passed. In what looked like the agents’ locker room, the yellow-suited pilot from earlier—Duke, if Damian recalled correctly—chatted with a young lady with blue hair holding an oversized machine gun. In a different room, a blond woman seemed to be helping an Asian noblewoman pick out some middle-class plainclothes. 

Damian stopped and planted his feet on the ground. “I order you to tell me what is happening.”

Dick took a few steps forward and knocked on a heavy wooden door.

He said, “Hey, I’m just the messenger. My job is to get you here safe and hand you over to the next person for Phases Two.”

“Phase Two?”

“Transformation. Phase One was Extraction,” Dick said.

The door opened to reveal a guy even younger than Dick, dressed in a black pinstripe suit with shined shoes and long hair neatly slicked back. In one hand he held a manila folder; in the other, a steaming hot coffee mug.

“He’s all yours,” Dick said to the other person.

“Thank you, Agent 37. You’re dismissed,” the guy said, taking the papers. He turned to Damian. “Your highness, please follow me this way.”

“Not until you tell me what is going on,” Damian demanded. “I wish to know why I am being separated from my mother and father and where you are taking me.”

The younger guy rolled his eyes and tucked the documents under his arm. “You were just plucked out of your home country without warning, so I guess it’s the least we owe you. Y’know, other than our usual services.”

Damian was led to a private dressing room, not unlike the ones backstage of concerts. A mirror took up an entire wall, lined with fluorescent white lightbulbs. Against the mirror wall was a long dresser paired with a fire hydrant red barbershop chair. Racks of clothing lined the room like a department store and a tower of shoeboxes were stacked in one corner. The young man gestured for Damian to take a seat.

“Alright, what do you want to know?” he asked.

“Everything,” replied the prince. “Who are you? Where am I? What are you going to do to me?”

The guy took a long sip, as if the drink was his only source of patience. 

“My name is Tim Drake,” he said, “and I’m the head director of the Reserve Operatives Bureau for International Noble Security—ROBINS for short. We are an affiliate of Interpol dedicated to the witness protection of high-profile people—celebrities, government employees, and, of course, royals. We lend our services to those who are under any type of threat.”

He set the papers down on the dresser in front of Damian. “In your case, the prince and princess of Nanda Parbat arranged for this to be your contingency plan.”

“What is this ‘plan’?”

“Well, the full plan will be executed at Phase Three. That’s when you’ll be relocated to a safe place. Phase One is done—Agents Grayson and Thomas extracted you from the dangerous situation. Right now, we need to complete Phase Two, which is to transform you—give you a covert civilian disguise,” Tim replied. He checked his watch. “Your stylist should be done any minute now.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Well, there she is. Kate is one of our best, so you’re in good hands,” Tim said

He was reaching for the doorknob when Damian cut him off abruptly.

“Wait!” the boy said. “I wish to speak with the agent who brought me here—Agent Grayson. I was instructed to listen to him,  _ not _ any of you.”

Tim sighed. “Fine.”

He tapped his earpiece and mumbled something while waving for the stylist to wait back outside. A few minutes later, Dick returned without the holsters or weapons.

“I want to speak with Grayson alone,” Damian said.

“As you wish,” Tim said, closing the door behind him as he backed out of the room.

Dick pulled up a chair. “What’s up?”

Damian crossed his arms. “I wish to go home.”

The agent pursed his lips. “You know we can’t do that. It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” the boy said. “I have a duty to my country.”

“Your father told you to trust me, right?”

Damian nodded. “Right.”

“And do you trust me?”

The boy hesitated before answering, “Yes. I trust you.”

“Then how about this,” Dick proposed. “You follow through with what your parents want and I promise I’ll be in touch every step of the way. You won’t have to do this alone.”

Damian’s eyes flicked from the agent to the clothing racks to the papers on the dresser.

“We have a deal.”

Dick opened the door and stepped out, making way for the stylist. As he did, he turned to Tim, who was busy typing something on his phone.

“Do you have any idea where he’ll be for Phase Three?” the older man asked.

“Actually, I do,” Tim replied. “She’s on her way up right now. Originally she was just here as an investigative reporter doing a column on international agencies, but she saw you arrive with Damian and I think she might be interested in taking him in.” He continued typing. “Of course, we need to screen her and make sure she’s fully qualified, because Damian is a prince, after all. We need to take extra caution.”

“Out of curiosity, can I meet her?” Dick asked.

“We’re holding the screening in a conference room,” Tim said. “You’re welcome to join.”

And that was exactly what Dick did. The two waited at a round table in a conference room. A few moments after they got set up, a woman in her early late thirties with dark brown hair, ironed blouse, pencil skirt, and heels entered.

“Welcome,” Tim said. “My name is Tim Drake. I am the director of ROBINS, as you may already know. And this is Agent Richard Grayson—he’s observing.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the woman said, shaking both men’s hands. “My name is Lois Lane. I’m a writer for the Daily Planet in the United States.”

“Pleasure,” he said. “So you are interested in housing one of our candidates.”

“Yes,” she said, settling in a chair and placing her purse on the carpet. “That child I saw earlier?”

“That would be Damian Al Ghul, prince of Nanda Parbat,” said Tim. “We checked your records and I must say, I’m truly impressed. I’ve never seen a record that clean—not even a parking ticket. Your household income and financial situation seems to be more than adequate. You’re a journalist, but scanning through your works you are honest and have integrity.”

Lois straightened up proudly, like a schoolgirl being given a gold star.

“Your family seems to be equally as clean as you,” Tim added. 

“Yep. My family are all the most law-abiding citizens you will find,” she said. “I talked to him—my husband—on the phone earlier. He’s onboard.”

“It says here you live on a farm outside of Metropolis?”

She nodded. “We’re less than half an hour from the city for anything we need.”

Dick hummed, clearly impressed.

“That leaves one last question,” Tim said. “Why do you want to take in a prince who has become a political refugee of his own country? You must know this is no easy task for a number of reasons.”

Lois answered truthfully, “He’s gone through so much already. I have a son the same age and if he had to go through half that much… God, I can’t even imagine. Even if the boy is a prince, he’s a child first and foremost, and all children deserve a place that’s safe, warm, and caring. My family can provide all of that. I’m certain of it.”

Tim scribbled something on a piece of paper before sliding it over to her.

“Sign here and here.” He pointed with his pen. “And initial here.”

Smiling, Lois signed her name.

As she did that, Dick gestured to the door, saying, “I’m gonna go check up on Damian.”

He slipped out of the room and down the hall. He knocked lightly, waiting for the cue to enter.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in. “How’s it going?”

The stylist—Kate—unclipped the barbershop poncho from Damian. Where his hair was once more elegant and obviously styled by a personal caretaker, it was now shorter; almost like a buzzcut, but still slightly longer and sticking up in small spikes. His Middle Eastern–style thobe was replaced by a plain black turtleneck, slacks, and sneakers. The gold wristwatch still remained on his wrist, albeit hidden by his sleeve.

“Phase Two is complete,” Kate said.

“Not gonna lie,” Dick commented. “I think I like this look better.”

“Nobody asked you, Grayson,” the child fired back.

The woman asked Damian, “Now, remember what we went over?”

Damian groaned. “Yes, I remember. My name is now Damian Wayne. I am a normal middle school student from Gotham City, New Jersey. I am the supposed godchild of whomever my host family is.”

“That’s the spirit, kiddo.” She ruffled his hair.

He batted her hand away, hissing like an angry cat. “Unhand me, peasant.”

Dick placed a hand on Damian’s back. 

“Come on, kiddo, we figured out where you’ll be relocating to for Phase Three,” he said. “They’re from the States. Metropolis, to be exact. Plus, they have a son your age too. I have a feeling you’re gonna like it there.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Yo, Kent, heads up!”

Twelve-year-old Jon Kent looked up from his book just in time to get hit smack dab in the middle of the face with a prepackaged chocolate chip muffin, right where his glasses met the bridge of his nose. He caught it in his hand just before it rolled onto the dirt and old gum–covered floor of the school bus. 

“What the heck, Georgia?” he asked the thrower—an African-American girl with hot pink butterfly clips in her long dreadlocks.

“Not my fault you’re slow,” the other preteen said teasingly. “Now pay up.”

In exchange for the muffin, Jon dug through his lunch box and tossed a king-sized peanut butter cup to her like a tiny frisbee. The bus skidded to a stop at a sign next to a cornfield.

“Catch ya later, Smallville!” George said.

“See you at school!” Jon waved back as he hopped off the bus. 

Jon tossed his backpack on the swinging bench on his front porch, but not before digging an extra hoodie out of it to combat the slight autumn chill. His first chore of the afternoon was feeding the horses. He didn’t mind that—he loved the family’s ponies. Jon jogged around the house and dug out the supplies from the shed. He slipped the plastic measuring scoop in his back pocket, heaved the bag of feed over his shoulder, and made his way to the stables.

He gave a quick nod and a  _ “‘Sup” _ to the random boy petting one of the horses.

Only after filling the all troughs and putting the bag away did Jon realize what was out of place. He returned to the stables and peered around the doorframe.

Jon couldn’t help but admire the stranger for a moment. He looked around the same age. His skin was perfectly tanned all around and his green eyes shimmered in the sunlight. He was a couple inches shorter than Jon but dressed far more elegantly, even if it was a just simple sweater and dark pants. Despite it being extremely warm, not a bead of sweat shone on his ebony hair. The boy’s sleeves were rolled up and Jon noticed the expensive watch on one arm and bandage on the other.

The boy spotted Jon first. 

“Hello,” he said amicably. “You have some fine steeds here.”

“Thanks?” Jon replied. He gestured towards the house. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be right back.”

It took everything in him not to freak out and break into a sprint as he entered the back door of the house. He spotted his mother at the stove with a soup pot containing more than just three servings.

“Mom?”

“Oh, hey Jon,” she said, adding a pinch of salt to the food. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” he replied, grabbing an apple. “There’s a kid in the stables. What’s…” 

He trailed off as he took a bite, waiting for an answer.

“Oh,” she answered. “You met Damian then?”

“I guess,” Jon said. “I didn’t know his name. What’s he doing here, though? With all due respect.”

Lois covered the pot and turned to her son. 

She said, “Your father knows. I was gonna tell you over dinner but now works too. You have to promise not to tell anyone outside of this house.”

Jon paused mid-bite and raised an eyebrow, but let her continue. She leaned back on the counter, tossing a dish towel aside.

“He’s actually the prince of Nanda Parbat,” she explained. “His country’s going through some rough stuff and he needs to go into hiding for the time being. We’re helping him with that.”

Jon glanced out the window. “A real prince huh?”

“Yep.”

“When most parents go on a business trip, they bring back a T-shirt, not a person.”

Lois laughed and returned to her cooking. “Look at you, always the little rascal. I was thinking you and him could share a room. You know, do whatever it is roommates do. Like a sleepover, except it’s every day.”

“That’s…” 

Jon wasn’t sure he wanted to share his bedroom. The space was small enough as is, plus that was  _ his _ place. It was his study area and hangout spot and private concert stage and movie theater and, well, everything. Though at the moment, Jon’s wants seemed to be the least of all concerns. 

“...Fine,” he said warily.

This prince—Damian—needed a place to stay and it appeared that all hands were on deck. It was only fair Jon did his part too, even if that meant sacrificing his Backstreet Boys jam sessions or sharing his  _ Lord of the Rings _ marathons with someone else. Actually, that second one didn’t sound too bad. But the idea of a new roommate still wasn’t exactly a welcome one.

“That’s the spirit, kiddo,” said Lois as she ruffled his hair. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself? And while you’re at it, bring him in to wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Jon tossed the apple core in the compost bin outside and jogged to the stables.

“Hey,” he greeted Damian. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I was confused about what was going on. My mom told me everything though. She says to come in and wash up, by the way. Dinner’s almost done. I’m Jon, by the way. Jon Kent.”

He held out a hand to shake, at which Damian looked at with disdain as he kept petting the horse, which had seemed to take a liking to him. Jon shoved his hands in his pockets.

“My name is Damian Al Gh—Damian Wayne,” the other boy said.

“You sure about that?” Jon asked, tilting his head and crossing his arms. “‘Cause you don’t seem so sure.”

“I am sure,” Damian replied sharply. “Do not question me again.”

Jon raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, dude, whatever. Mom wants us inside.”

“Take me to your washroom.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, finding the boy’s princely behaviors rather peculiar.

“Down the hall, second door on the right.”

Jon’s father got home just as Jon and Lois set up the table (Damian not offering to help). The man hung up his coat and hat and greeted his wife and son with a kiss and a hair ruffle, respectively.

“You must be Damian,” he said as they gathered around the tiny kitchen table. “Lois has told me a lot about you. I’m Clark.”

Before he could offer a handshake, Jon stopped him, muttering, “He doesn’t do those.”

“Right, my bad.” Clark awkwardly cleared his throat and turned back to his plate.

“So, Damian,” Lois said. “Tell us about yourself.”

Damian, who was already sitting up straight, sat up even straighter (which Jon didn’t know was possible).

Damian replied, “As you may know, I am the crown prince to the throne of Nanda Parbat and second in line only to my parents.”

He faltered at that last portion before composing himself once more, like he had to appear professional for a camera hidden in the room. It was then that Jon also noticed the way Damian placed the paper napkin on his lap. Jon shrugged; must have been a royal thing.

“Yes, we know that,” Lois said, “but what about you? What kind of things do you like?”

Damian hesitated, as if he had never been asked that before.

“I enjoy fencing,” he answered. “I had a private trainer at the palace.”

“What a coincidence!” said Lois. “Jon, aren’t you doing a unit on fencing in gym class right now?”

“Yeah,” Jon replied.

“He’s top of his class,” Lois continued, “and the coach said he’s the best they’ve seen in a decade.”

Damian raised his eyebrow. “In that case, I look forward to a match with you.”

Jon could tell Damian had years of one-on-one training and could easily squash him in a competition—all the farm boy had was a couple of summer camps and gym class. The last thing Jon wanted was to be humiliated in front of his classmates. 

“Too bad the only way you can do that is if you followed me to school,” Jon said, chuckling nervously.

“That can be arranged,” Clark said. “Staying at home alone every day isn’t plausible.”

Jon mentally facepalmed because  _ of course, _ this was happening.

Once everyone was done and Jon did the dishes all by himself, he grabbed his backpack and made his way upstairs. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the second mattress and the boy sitting on it, but the sight was still a peculiar one. Jon set the bag down on his bed, grabbed his pajamas, and slipped through the adjacent bathroom door—all while not taking his eyes off of Damian the whole time.

As he brushed his teeth, he replayed the evening in his head. His mother once told him that if something seemed like a lot, to break it up into a list of more manageable items.

One: Damian was a prince. Jon could’ve figured that out on his own. Seriously, what middle schooler ate with a napkin on his lap and used words like “steed” to describe horses?

Two: Damian was in hiding and Jon had to help keep it a secret. That was easy; everyone trusted Jon with their secrets. He was the class’s master secret-keeper.

Three: Jon had to live with and share everything with Damian. Maybe it was because Jon grew up as an only child, but he didn’t foresee that working out anytime soon. But Jon owed it to everyone to at least try.

When Jon came out of the bathroom, Damian was sitting perfectly still in the same spot, just as how Jon left him. It unnerved the younger boy.

“You know we have a second bathroom, right?” Jon asked.

“I know,” Damian replied. “I require proper sleepwear. Do you have any green silk garments?”

“Green, yes. Silk, no,” Jon replied.

He grabbed a green long-sleeved shirt and a darker green pair of shorts from his dresser and threw it across the room.

“I grant you permission to help me prepare for bed,” Damian said.

Jon scoffed incredulously. “I grant you permission to do it yourself.”

He couldn’t help but think how it was almost comical the way Damian expected everything to be handed to him. Sure, he was a prince, but Jon didn’t think the other boy could be  _ that _ self-important. 

Figuring he could use a distraction, Jon dug through his backpack until he found the muffin from earlier. Tossing the plastic wrap aside, he sunk his teeth into the sweet treat, not caring about the crumbs that fell onto his bed.

Just then, Damian emerged from the bathroom. He eyed Jon suspiciously.

“You should not be eating that right now,” he said.

Jon wanted to say, “What are you, the muffin police?” but it came out more like “Wahoofemufinnfolice” with his mouth full.

“I shall inform your parents.”

Jon nearly choked. “No, wait–”

But the other boy was already making his way downstairs. Jon groaned as Damian returned with an unhappy Lois by his side.

“Jonathan Samuel Kent,” she scolded. “What did I tell you about sweets at night? Clean this up right now and do your homework.”

He hung his head. “Yes, Mom.”

Jon didn’t look at either of them as he brushed the crumbs off his bed. Once his mother was satisfied and left, he pulled out his laptop.

“What are you doing?” Damian asked.

“Homework,” Jon said, ”like every other sixth-grader.”

He ignored Damian as the latter peered over at his math worksheet. 

“Tt, the education system in your country is abysmal. I learned this when I was seven.”

“Yeah, well, not everyone has a private tutor,” Jon fired back, getting more and more annoyed by the second. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“I do not.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, finishing the worksheet quickly. “Let’s see what else I got.”

Jon opened his English teacher’s email, which contained prompts for the students to practice their writing by answering. The question read:  _ “If you were royalty for a day, what would you do?” _

He promptly closed the laptop. “I’m going to sleep.”

Jon flicked off the lights and pulled the covers over his body, not even bothering to say goodnight to his new roommate. 

Not even ten minutes later, just as Jon was on the cusp of falling asleep, the sound of talking yanked him right back where he started. He rolled over, shielding his eyes at the bright white light of a tablet.

“Yes, Grayson, these accommodations are adequate,” Damian said.

“Good, good, I’m glad you’re getting along,” a voice—Grayson, Jon presumed—said from the other end of a video call. “Say, is that a  _ Lord of the Rings _ poster behind you?”

Damian glanced behind. “Apparently.”

“Ooh!” the other person excitedly exclaimed. “You got a roommate! What’s he like?”

“He’s tired and annoyed,” Jon interjected. He picked up a pair of tangled earbuds off the floor and chucked it at Damian. “At least use these and, like, hide under your blanket or something. And be quiet, I’m trying to sleep.”

Nonetheless, Damian talked and talked to whoever this “Grayson” guy was until the tablet battery died—which wasn’t until nearly three o’clock. The entire time, Jon tried to drown out the sound with a pillow pressed over his ears. He still did even after because another thing Jon felt that he should’ve been warned about was Damian’s snoring. It wasn’t deafeningly loud, but it wasn’t quiet by any means either.

As the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, Jon thought to himself,  _ “This is gonna be a long ride.” _


	4. Chapter 4

Jon got a solid forty-five minutes of sleep—and that was after he hit snooze three times until his mother woke him up.

Damian was already up and ready before him, wearing one of Jon’s school uniforms from the laundry. Jon brushed past as the boy was busy adjusting his tie in front of a hallway mirror.

“Don’t take too long unless you wanna miss breakfast,” Jon said.

Like any other weekday morning, the tiny kitchen was bustling with activity. Clark caught two pieces of toast on a plate as they popped out of the toaster; Lois held her phone between her ear and her shoulder, presumably talking to a coworker as she poured her coffee.

Jon gestured tiredly at the coffee. “Can I have some?”

“No,” Clark said, adding creamer to his own mug, “you’re too young.”

“Please, Dad,” he begged. 

“Why are you so tired anyway?” the man asked as he filled a cup three-quarters of the way with milk and added a splash of actual brew. “Bad dream?”

Jon glared daggers as Damian as the latter entered the room.

“You could say that,” Jon answered.

Clark huffed, placing the mostly milk coffee in front of his son. “Just this once.”

The boy grabbed the Froot Loops package from the pantry and dumped the box’s contents into a bowl. While Jon shoveled spoonful after spoonful of cereal into his mouth, Damian simply sat and waited.

“I wish to know why everybody is in such a hurry,” the prince said.

“Gotta catch the bus,” Jon replied.

Damian tilted his head. “The bus?” 

“School bus. The big yellow thing that takes us to school. ‘Cause apparently you’re coming with me.”

“That’s right,” Lois said. “Clark and I have to get to a meeting. Jon, it’s your job to help Damian around. Show him how to be a normal kid.”

“But Mom–”

Lois placed a kiss on Jon’s head. “Love you, sweetheart. Have a nice day! And you too, Damian.”

“Love you too,” he said back, but the parents were already out the door.

Damian simply waved at the two adults before turning back to Jon. 

He said, “Since our primary caretakers are not present, I request breakfast. Eggs Benedict, a tropical fruit salad, and Earl Grey tea with two sugars.”

“Yeah, no.” Jon slid over the colorful cereal box. “First rule of being a normal kid: you gotta eat like one.”

Damian’s expression morphed into one of disgust as he read the ingredients. 

He shoved the box back into Jon’s hands. “I refuse to eat this. It is full of nothing but artificial colors and preservatives.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Welcome to America. Though if you want…”

He grabbed a different box from the shelf and set it down in front of Damian.

“You strike me as a Raisin Bran person anyway. Now hurry up, the bus is coming.”

Damian scoffed but relented.

The school bus rolled to the stop at the same time the boys sprinted outside. Like every morning, Jon gave the driver a quick nod and hello before searching for an open seat.

“This vehicle appears to be at maximum occupancy,” said Damian. “Perhaps we should wait for the next one.”

“Damian, there is no next one.”

Much to Jon’s annoyance, Damian slid into the seat next to him, but it wasn’t like Jon could say anything without making a big deal. And the last thing he needed that morning was to cause a scene.

“Hey, Kent, who’s this?” the kid behind them asked.

“Oh,” Jon said. “This is Damian. He’s…”

“I am the godson of his parents,” Damian answered.

“Where’re ya from, Damian?” the kid asked.

“I am from Gotham City.” 

His answers sounded like the most scripted thing ever. Jon made a mental note to show Damian how to act naturally after school. The other kids immediately stopped talking to him.

“Excuse me?” Damian asked, offended.

Jon sank into his seat a little out of secondhand embarrassment. “This is Metropolis. People hate Gotham.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause they suck.”

_ “Seriously, of all places for a cover story?” _ Jon thought.

Thankfully, there were no other disturbances for the rest of the ride. Jon even got a few extra minutes of sleep before they arrived at the school.

As they stepped off the bus, Damian said, “Just so you know, I do not want to be here.”

“That makes two of us,” Jon muttered.

In English, he sat as far away from Damian as possible. The teacher arrived and didn’t bother introducing the new student, which Jon was just a tiny bit relieved for.

“Everybody, open your book to page one-hundred and two,” the middle-aged man said. “Today we will be talking about two literary techniques: consonance and assonance.”

The entire room, save for Damian, snickered.

“Haha, hilarious,” He said sarcastically.

He turned around to write the words on the blackboard. The class laughed again as he wrote the first three letters of “assonance”.

“Fine, let’s move on,” the man said. “Everybody, please bring out your copy of  _ Winter’s Tale _ and discuss the main theme. Mr. Wayne, you’re exempt since this is your first day.”

“No need,” Damian said. “ _ Winter’s Tale _ by Mark Helprin, right? A story in which Helprin is saying that over time, the city will always find a way to protect its people and its suffering will be avenged, leading to a new golden age.” He shrugged. “It is pretty basic.”

“Well said, young man,” said the teacher. “Everyone else, take notes.”

The students collectively groaned. Crumpled-up balls of paper and choruses of “nerd” and “teacher’s pet” flew across the room, but Damian remained stoic and unperturbed. Jon didn’t partake in any of it, only sinking farther into his chair while pinching the bridge of his nose. He focused his attention out the window beside him, where a dark-haired groundskeeper was raking the leaves in the most boring manner possible. Still, it was preferable over the show-off boy prince. 

French class wasn’t any better. 

For starters, the teacher introduced Damian.

“If our new student would stand up and introduce himself, please. You are Monsieur Jonathan’s relative, right?”

“Yes,” Damian answered.

“No,” Jon said at the same time.

“Tell us about yourself, Monsieur Damian,” the teacher said.

Damian cleared his throat. “ _ Mon nom est Damian Wayne. Je viens de Gotham City et je reste avec Jon pour le moment. Je parle aussi couramment le français et peut être utile dans cette classe. _ ”

“ _ Très impressionnant. Quelles autres langues parlez-vous? _ ” she asked.

He replied, “ _ Outre le français et l'anglais, je parle également espagnol, chinois, arabe, russe, ourdou, hindi, et japonais. _ ”

A blonde girl leaned across the aisle and whispered to Jon, “What a weirdo.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, though he had to admit the other boy’s language skills were impressive.

The class ticked by slowly as Damian answered every single question and had lengthy conversations with the teacher in French, leaving the rest of the students—including Jon, who could barely say “How are you?”—in the dust. Afterward, Jon grabbed Damian by the blazer cuff and pulled him aside.

“Dude, what was that?” he asked.

“I am simply addressing my staff in their native language,” Damian answered, shaking off Jon’s grip.

“They aren’t ‘your staff’,” Jon said, “and you don’t have to talk to the language in their native language. They know that everyone else only knows English. That’s why they’re here to teach us.”

Damian scoffed. “I do not need to be taught, unlike you imbeciles.”

“Then just sit there and don’t say anything,” Jon said. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“Tt, you don’t need me to do that.”

If it weren’t for the fact that Jon had a squeaky clean record, he would have certainly strangled Damian on the spot. 

“We have gym class next,” Damian stated.

“Yeah, I know,” Jon shot back. “Just… try harder to be normal.”

“Noted.”

Jon dreaded gym class.

Correction: he dreaded gym class with  _ Damian _ . 

The kid was probably a world-class fencer whereas Jon just happened to be the best among people with zero skill. There was no way he could go up against a prince with  _ actual formal training _ . Surely, though, this could be the worst his day got, right? 

Taking a deep breath, Jon slipped the mesh helmet over his head and made his way to the gym. The other kids sat on the bleachers, gossiping as they waited for the coach to finish taking attendance.

The whistle blew. “Kent, you’re up, since you’re the only decent one here.”

Jon’s usual saber felt heavier as he drew it from the rack. He stepped onto the mat.

“Now,” the coach said. “Which one of you wants to go first?”

Unsurprisingly, Damian stood up. “I wish to challenge you.”

Jon gulped. “Cool…”

Just like the rules stated, the boys bowed before swiftly turning away from each other. Jon closed his eyes and composed himself. Every nerve in his body screamed to run before he got hurt or humiliated, but his body remained perfectly still.

“ _ En garde! _ ”

Jon whirled around and just barely parried Damian’s swift attack. He returned with a jab at the middle, which the older boy easily evaded. Damian feigned to the side so quickly that it made Jon’s head spin and he stumbled backward. The prince tapped Jon’s chest with the tip of the saber and the boy tumbled onto his behind. 

It all took under fifteen seconds. 

Damian removed his mask.

“Pitiful,” he scoffed. “That was nowhere near worth my time.”

Jon scrambled up and sprinted out of the room, the entire class’s laughter ringing in his ears like an off-key song. His eyes stung as he quickly changed out of his gym clothes in the locker. The day wasn’t even half over but he was already contemplating faking sick just so he can go home. 

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

“What do you want?” Jon spat, shaking off the hand. 

“You are a horrid fencer,” Damian said plainly.

“Gee, thanks for the reminder.” He rolled his eyes and stuffed his gym clothes into his bag.

“I want to extend my tutelage to you.”

“No thanks,” Jon said. “I don’t need you or your ‘tutelage’.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way to the cafeteria, past the chattering students and groundskeeper from before gathering supplies from a closet. He plopped down at a table with his usual group of friends. From the corner of his eye, Jon spotted Damian getting in the lunch line.

“Hey, Jon,” said Georgia. “My mom went shopping yesterday and got a ton of snacks.”

She dumped the contents of her backpack—several different kinds of junk foods—onto the table. His eyes widened as it took up all the space in the middle of the round lunch table. Jon’s arm reached for the pile.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the girl said, blocking his arm with her hand. “You know the rules.”

“Right, right. Lemme see what I got.” He opened his lunchbox and fished out a saran-wrapped sugar cookie. “What can I get with this?”

“Hm…” she plucked an orange bag from the pile. “You still like Cheetos?”

“Not since last November,” he said. “How about that Milky Way bar?” He pointed to the package.

“I dunno…” Georgia said. “It’s king-sized. That’s gonna cost you extra.” 

From the corner of his eye, Jon watched Damian sit down at an empty corner table with a veggie burger and juice box. Damian laid the napkin on his lap like he did at dinner the previous night and began cutting into his burger with a knife and fork. A few kids whispered among themselves while giving him the side-eye.

“Hold that thought,” Jon said to the girl. 

He grabbed his lunchbox, slid into the seat across from Damian, and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I am having my lunch,” Damian replied, “though it is substandard compared to Pennyworth’s cooking.”

“Pennyworth?”

“My most valued servant. He would have an aneurysm if he saw me right now. Now, why don’t you return to that… economy of yours.” He gestured to the other table.

Jon shook his head. “You know they have burgers in Gotham City, right? You have to act like a regular kid from Jersey.”

“This is how my father always eats it,” Damian said. “He gets American food imported all the time.”

“No offense, but the king–”

“He is also a prince.”

“My point still stands. Your dad—the prince—is wrong. Burgers are quintessential finger foods.” Jon stretched his arm under the table and snatched the napkin from Damian’s lap. “And nobody does… whatever this is,” he said, waving it around.

“You just eat it with your hands?” Damian asked.

“Yep.”

“That sounds unsanitary.”

“Maybe, but it’s how we do it here.”

Damian hesitated before picking up one of the pre-cut pieces and took a tentative, bird-like bite, his pinky held up as he did so.

It was a start, Jon gave him that much.


	5. Chapter 5

That first Tuesday with Damian was the longest day of Jon’s life, but the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday that followed felt less like half a week and more like half a year. 

Every time Jon thought he was getting somewhere, thought that he was finally getting Damian to understand how to be a normal sixth grader, Damian did something to set back their progress. It was like they took two steps forward and one step back every day. Jon managed to get through to Damian a few concepts like burgers, school busses, and homework assignments, but the rest seemed nearly impossible. Sometimes Jon wondered if Damian was even capable of being ordinary or if the royal life had drilled that all out of him. For the most part, he could simply ignore the princely mannerisms as he did with other things that only mildly annoyed him, like they were mosquitos that buzzed without actually biting. He could put up with Damian being a teacher’s pet and his stuck-up attitude and his tendency to beat everyone at everything. He could even handle the midnight video chats and snoring. But there were certain things that Jon had zero patience for.

Such was the case when the bell rang at the end of the day on Friday. 

Jon zipped up his backpack and heaved it over his shoulder, weighed down with a number of textbooks and assignments that no preteen should have. Out of nowhere, a stack of books, folders, pencils, and a jacket was dumped into his arms.

“What the heck?!?” he exclaimed.

Damian was gathering more things from his locker, adding it to the heap.

“ _ Damian _ ,” Jon said louder.

“Hang on,” Damian said. “My gym shoes are somewhere in here too.”

“I’m not your pack mule,” he said. “Carry your own stuff.”

“I do not want to,” Damian said in an authoritarian manner. “Now, I order you to take this to the bus, and if I see so much as a single crease–”

Damian’s words fell on deaf ears; red clouded Jon’s vision and he shoved the pile back into the prince’s arms because  _ enough was enough _ .

“I don’t give a damn!” Jon hollered. “You can’t order people around like you own the place,  _ especially _ not me.”

“You are not to speak to me that way,” Damian said, voice rising equally fast. 

“And what are you gonna do about it?” Jon asked. “You don’t have power. You’re a nobody here, just like everyone else, so quit acting like a… a  _ prince! _ ”

“I command you to cease this instant.”

“And I command you to take a long walk off a short pier. It looks like neither of us will be getting what we want.”

Jon stormed out the front doors, ignoring the stares from other kids. As soon as his feet hit the sidewalk, he broke into a sprint, not caring as his uniform pants brushed the wet grass. Dry leaves brunched under his as he looked for a place— _ any _ place—to get away from that godawful pompous, pretentious little prince. 

Everything just had to revolve around Damian. Oh, Damian didn’t like non-silk pajamas and mediocre cereal breakfasts? Poor thing, hasn’t he suffered enough? Stupid perfect princely  _ Damian _ .

All by himself, somewhere in the dark backwoods of the school, Jon screamed. He swung around and punched the thing closest to him—a hard oak tree. Bruises were already beginning to blossom across his knuckles when he pulled his hand back. He whimpered and bit his tongue to stop from crying out as pain shot up his hand like a thousand glowing needles. Tears blurred his vision as he staggered backward—falling right onto a neatly raked pile of leaves, sending fiery scarlets and oranges flying every which way. 

The shadow looming over him suddenly became crystal clear when Jon wiped the tears from eyes with his sleeve. It was a person, he knew that much—tall, wearing a long hooded jacket, and features were largely hidden in the darkness. Before the boy could scream, a large hand grabbed him by a fistful of his shirt. The stranger’s other hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

Jon put up his best fight, squirming and kicking and biting, but the stranger was far stronger and almost seemed prepared for this exact situation. The person dragged Jon for several minutes to a clearing surrounded by pine trees and unceremoniously dropped him and he landed on his behind.

The boy scrambled to pull himself up, only to be met with a sword—a real one, not a ball-tipped fencing saber—pointed straight at his chest. The stranger took off the hood, revealing underneath a young man with a white streak in his dark hair and steely eyes that pierced into Jon’s soul. He towered over the boy and spoke in a low-pitched, slightly accented tone. 

“Where is the prince?”

_ Oh _ . This was  _ not good _ . Jon despised everything Damian did, but not enough to sell him out to a big scary swordsman.

He chuckled nervously. “Prince? What prince?”

“You can’t fool me,” the man said. “I saw you talking to him.”

It was then that Jon noticed a duffel leaning against a rock and a corner of brownish-gray uniform fabric sticking through the jammed zipper. A horrifying realization set in.

“You’re that groundskeeper,” Jon said. “The one outside the window in class and walking around the halls.”

“Very good, you have the deduction skills of a thirteen-year-old,” the man sneered.

“That is pretty good,” Jon said, “‘cause I’m only twelve!”

The glare that followed silenced him.

“Tell me everything you know,” the man demanded, placing the tip of the weapon so close to Jon that it brushed the fabric of his dress shirt.

Jon didn’t dare breathe as his eyes flitted back and forth between the guy and the blade.

“I don’t really know anything,” Jon said—which was, for the large part, the truth. “We’re not even friends. He’s just the new kid at school.”

The stranger eyed Jon. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said. “I’m as dumb as a sack of corn. I don’t even know how to tie my own shoes.”

Okay, maybe that was stretching it, but Jon needed to sell his point. 

The man sheathed the sword. “Alright, if you say so.”

Jon was surprised at how easy that was. In movies, scenarios like this always led to graphic torture scenes followed by a daring rescue by the main heroes. Though, he supposed, there weren’t any prewritten heroes for this story. The boy offhandedly wondered if he could ever be one. 

The stranger’s looming stature reminded him that  _ no, he was just a kid _ . 

“Leave,” the man said. “And don’t speak of this to anyone.”

The boy didn’t need to be told twice. With no idea where he came from, Jon sprinted in a random direction, hoping it would lead to either the school or a road. He patted his pockets for his cell phone, and when he found it he opened the location app to figure out where he was. Thankfully, Jon was within walking distance from the school. He pulled up a map and took off in that direction.

A single, feather-like white flake descended from the darkening, overcast sky. It landed on the tip of Jon’s nose before promptly melting. Another one followed, landing on the ground with delicateness and grace. More came in suit, falling straight down the way people usually pictured snow. He fished a sweatshirt out of his backpack and pulled his over his tiny body. Still shivering, Jon stuffed his hands in the pockets.

The woods seemed to stretch on for miles. It gave him time to think as he navigated his way through the dried undergrowth. Whoever that stranger was clearly wasn’t supposed to know Damian’s whereabouts—the only people who were to know that was the Kent family and the organization that sent the prince. The accent was peculiar, to say the least. It was mostly American but with a slight hint of something foreign that Jon couldn’t pinpoint, as if the young man had been studying abroad. He didn’t know what to make of the encounter. It seemed very… international. Jon doubted local police could do much if that were the case. Plus, telling authorities meant running the risk of exposing Damian. Jon couldn’t do that. 

Moreover, he knew even less what to make of Damian now. Clearly the boy was important; clearly, he played a bigger role than simply Snob of the Century. Jon couldn’t help but feel for him. He was a kid too, yet he had to deal with international conflicts whilst constantly wearing a target on his back. Maybe that was why Damian appeared uptight. If the tables were flipped and Jon was the exiled royal, he would have cracked under the pressure long ago. 

After what felt like forever trudging through the cold, Jon found himself back in the same parking lot of the academy. The street lamps flickered on and he had never felt smaller, standing alone outside of the building devoid of its usual hustle and bustle. He tried his luck with the doors, but all of them were locked.

Jon dialed the first number in his contacts and held the phone up to his ear, shielding it from the unexpectedly early winter flurry.

One ring.

Two rings.

On the third ring, someone picked up.

“Dad!” Jon exclaimed. “Oh thank God!”

Clark managed to sound bewildered and worried at the same time. “Jon? Where are you? Your mother and I have been looking for you everywhere! We were almost about to file a police report. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Slow down, Dad,” Jon said with a small laugh. “I’m fine. I’m at the school parking lot. It’s… a long story.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way,” Clark said. 

Ten minutes later, the familiar rust-red pickup truck pulled up by the building.

Jon had barely buckled his seat belt when his father said, “Spill.”

The boy scratched the back of his neck as he tried to think of what to say. Outside the window, buildings passed by in a colorless concrete haze. They gave way to the rolling country fields. Normally they were a lush amber in the daytime, but all Jon saw now were dreary blues being buried in the quickly falling snow. Not even the moon was visible behind the clouds.

“Well?” Clark asked. “You disappear after school without warning in this cold and nobody knows where you’ve gone. I think it’s safe to say you owe an explanation.”

Jon sighed and said, “I needed to take a walk. It’s been… not the best week.”

“Do you wanna talk about it, kiddo?”

“Not really,” he said. “I think I’m just gonna go home and hit the hay.”

Clark pulled up in front of the house and ruffled Jon’s hair lightly and said, “That’s fine, no pressure. If you wanna talk about it, you know you can always come to me, right?”

Jon smiled. “‘Course I can.”

He ignored Damian in the living room and proceeded straight to the showers. Jon almost missed how the steaming hot water cleared up his sinuses, which was odd because he was feeling fine earlier. He threw on the warmest pajamas he could find and glided down the banister into the kitchen. He almost lost his balance at the end when a sneeze came without warning.

Jon had originally planned to take a Tylenol pill and head back upstairs. He didn’t anticipate a cup of tea being placed in his hands and to be told to sit down. Next to the stove, Damian poured another cup for himself. 

“What’s this?” Jon asked.

“Tt, what does it look like?” Damian asked. “I knew you were going to catch a head cold in this weather.”

Jon half-wondered if Damian did something to the drink. Like poisoned it. Or spit in it. He only took a sip after the other boy did first. Jon sneezed again and Damian grabbed a tissue box.

A moment of silence passed, save for Jon’s sniffles and the kettle’s whistle, before he asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You know what,” Jon said, gesturing to the tea and tissues. “I thought princes didn’t do this stuff.”

Damian took a long sip. “A prince always takes care of his subjects.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’m not your subject.” He glanced down at the teacup. “But… thanks.”

There was another beat of silence before Damian said remorsefully, “I’m sorry.”

Jon nearly choked. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Damian repeated, “for how I have been treating you. You were only trying to help me acclimate and I have been taking advantage of you.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Jon said, resigned but not as bitter. “You’re a prince, after all.”

“It is not becoming of a prince to treat people the way I have. My parents would be disappointed if they saw me right now.”

Damian looked down at his half-empty cup, and Jon could only wonder what was going through his mind. Their reflections in their own teacups were murky at best among the swirling leaves. Jon glanced around the kitchen. His eyes landed on a framed photo of his parents and himself at a baseball game.

“Dami…” he said slowly, “do you miss your home?”

Damian sighed. “Every day.”

“What are they like?” Jon asked. “Your family.”

“Status and titles aside, not much different from yours,” Damian said. “My mother, she is the most beautiful woman on Earth, and the strongest too. She is strict but also kind and fair and is highly respected in the kingdom.” He traced the outer edge of a gold watch with his finger. “My father is my hero. He has a strong sense of what is right and what is wrong and stands strong even when the rest of the world seems to be against him. He gave me this watch—it is a family heirloom. I can only hope to be half the man he is. I miss them both.”

“I can’t imagine,” Jon murmured, “what it’s like to leave everything behind. I’m sorry you had to.”

Damian said, “It is the only way to keep them safe.”

Jon tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“My grandfather is… unstable. They say it is something clinical. He is unfit to rule but refuses to abdicate and hand the crown to my parents. He… threatened to execute everybody who goes against him. In the event he…”

Jon didn’t know what to say other than the cookie-cutter sympathies. 

“As long as I am safe, my home will stand strong. That is what my father said.”

Jon collected their empty cups and set them in the sink.

He turned to Damian. “Do you wanna try again?”

“Come again?”

“Us.” He pointed between the two of them. “We got off on the wrong foot, and if you’re gonna be staying with us I think it’s best if we stopped hating each other, for starters. Here, I’ll start.”

Jon held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Jon Kent. Pleased to meet you.”

Damian smiled and shook his hand. “Damian Wayne. The pleasure is all mine.”


	6. Chapter 6

Things were far from perfect, but they were better from then on out. 

The leaf piles of autumn turned into thick snowdrifts and animosity turned into something far warmer. Days turned into weeks that turned into a new normal; like Damian wasn’t a prince in hiding, but rather a new best friend staying for an extended sleepover. 

They did everything together. They told stories and slowly got used to each other’s idiosyncrasies, like how Damian ironed his clothes every laundry day or how Jon sang the ABCs out loud while washing his hands. Damian showed Jon how to play chess and Jon showed him all the fun ways to cheat at it. They once stayed up for over twenty-four hours binging on cheesy popcorn and all the  _ Lord of the Rings _ movies, and they both agreed they were better than the books. Jon met Damian’s video chat buddy—an internationally acclaimed agent named Dick Grayson—who gave the boy his personal number. They talked like friends and worked in tandem like partners-in-crime and bickered like an old married couple. Damian taught Jon how to do properly do a waltz to the tune of Lois’s classical music CDs.

And Jon was in the midst of teaching Damian the choreography to _ I Want It That Way _ when there was a knock at the bedroom door.

Jon paused the video on his laptop and said, “Come in.”

Lois opened the door. She smiled at the two, who were dressed in matching cream-colored ‘90s boyband outfits. 

“It’s nice to see you boys having fun,” she said, “but you promised to go holiday shopping with your father, remember?”

“Shoot, I almost forgot!” Jon exclaimed. “Thanks for reminding me. Tell Dad we’ll be down in five minutes.”

As Jon changed his shirt, Damian raised an eyebrow. “Holiday shopping?”

“Yeah, gifts and stuff for Christmas.” Jon looked at the other boy. “Please don’t tell me you’ve never been to the mall.”

Damian shook his head. 

“Oh, man!” Jon threw an arm around Damian’s shoulders; the latter flinched but didn’t pull away. “You’re gonna love it! It’s like a palace but with a food court.”

“I doubt that,” Damian replied, “but if that is what you people do here…”

“You’ll love it, trust me.”

The mall wasn’t new to Jon by any means, but the place never failed to captivate him around the holidays. Crystalline snowflake-shaped chandeliers hung from the seemingly endless ceiling. Christmas trees stood at every corner with donation baskets that Jon kept extra cash to drop into. A giant menorah stood in front of the entrance with bright lightbulb “candles” for the days of Hannukah. All around, elves and retail workers and busy shoppers milled about. Jon subconsciously grabbed Damian’s arm so neither of them got lost.

Clark unfolded a shopping list in his pocket and put on his reading glasses. “First on the list: socks for in-laws.”

Jon groaned. “Daaad, that’s literally the most boring thing ever. Can Damian and I please go do something else?”

“After we pick up the essentials,” Clark said. 

The boy made a whining sound but followed his father into the first store. As soon as Clark was out of earshot, Jon turned to Damian.

“I know how to get us out of here,” he said.

“How?” Damian asked.

“Just trust me.”

Jon slipped into one of the circular clothing racks and motioned for Damian to join. 

Inside the rack, Damian scoffed and asked, “What are we doing?”

Jon put a finger in front of his lips in a small  _ “shh” _ . He peeked through the hanging garments at where Clark stood nearby, completely oblivious.

“This works every time,” he whispered. “On my cue.”

“Americans are so strange,” said Damian.

Jon covered Damian’s mouth with his hand, only to pull it away when he felt something wet.

“Ew!” Jon whisper-shouted. “Did you just lick my hand?”

“It was a defense mechanism,” the other boy countered. “My question is why does your hand taste like peanut butter?”

“That’s none of your business. Now shush.”

“Do not shush me.”

“Too bad, I just did.”

A voice from outside caught their attention. Jon readied himself, and Damian reluctantly copied him.

“Jon?” Clark called, spinning around to search behind himself. “Damian? Jon?”

Jon stifled a laugh as he watched his father search behind the shelves and around the aisles, calling their names. Jon held up his fingers and on the count of three…

_ “RAAAAH!” _

They sprang from the rack, nearly knocking it over in the process. Clark jumped a foot in the air and whirled around. He glared at the two, who were leaning against each other in a fit of giggles. 

“Fine, have it your way,” the man huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just meet back at the entrance in two hours.”

Jon cheered. He grabbed Damian’s hand and sprinted out of the store.

“What now?” Damian asked as Jon dragged him along.

“Now we do whatever we want. What do you wanna do first, Dami?”

Damian looked down at his clothes, which consisted of faded jeans, sneakers, and Jon’s old Metropolis Meteors hoodie, which hung a tad too loosely around the shorter boy.

“I need a more suitable attire,” he said.

Jon nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I was gonna say you need to stop borrowing my stuff. It looks weird on you.”

Damian pointed to a semi-formal boys clothing store. “How about that one?”

“Sounds good. I can help you pick out your new wardrobe.”

Jon did his part by grabbing nearly everything in sight that Damian showed even a remote interest in. By the time they got to the dressing rooms, their arms were ladened with several pairs of pants, countless shirts and knitted sweaters, and a leaning tower of shoeboxes. Jon waited outside as Damian presented him with different outfits, to which he rated with a thumbs up or thumbs down. Towards the end, they had two equally divided piles that they labeled as “Heck yeah” and “NOPE”. 

Damian pulled aside the dressing room curtains one last time. He wore a simple white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and black pants to match. Jon noticed a long, pink scar running down one arm. Damian fiddled with the heirloom watch ever so subtly. One part of the shirt collar was flipped the wrong way. Jon stepped forward and adjusted it before drawing his hand away just as quickly.

“So?” Damian asked. 

Jon looked away and coughed. 

“You look good,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

There was a breath of silence between them as something fluttered in Jon’s chest, like a baby butterfly. It was interrupted when both their stomachs growled at the same time.

“Hey, Dami, you ever been to a food court?” Jon asked. 

Ten minutes later, they found an empty table at the edge of the crowded food court. Jon held both their trays as Damian was weighed down by his numerous shopping bags. As soon as they sat down, Jon sank his fork into the bowl of orange chicken.

Damian tutted. “You don’t even know how to use chopsticks?”

“Uh… do plastic training ones count?” Jon asked with his mouth full.

Damian glared at Jon like he had just said the most blasphemous thing on Earth. He broke apart the wooden chopsticks and handed them to Jon along with the wrapper, which had instructions printed on the side.

“I’ve tried before, Dami. It never worked,” Jon said.

To demonstrate, he tried to hold them like the picture showed, but one of them fell out of his grasp and onto the table.

“Tt.” Damian leaned across the table and adjusted Jon’s grip for him. “Try now.”

Sure enough, when Jon went to pick up his food, neither it nor the chopsticks fell. With a satisfied smirk, Damian picked up his drink, pinky sticking up as he took a sip. Jon leaned over and put Damian’s pinky down. 

They passed a toy store after that, and Jon noticed the way Damian’s eyes lingered on a remote-controlled Monk-E-Monsters game.

“We can get that if you wanna,” Jon said. “I still have money left over.”

“You already paid for the clothes,” Damian said. “It is more than enough.”

“Still,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”

“A prince does not have time for frivolous play.”

“But you’re not a prince here. You’re just Damian.”

Damian waved him off. “I do not need it, really. Now, where is the washroom?”

Jon pointed past the row of shops. As soon as Damian disappeared, the younger boy darted into the toy store and grabbed the last Monk-E-Monsters box on the shelf. 

He slapped the cash on the counter and said, “Keep the change.”

After the mall, the boys helped decorate the house for Christmas. While Jon helped Clark string the lights on the side of the house, Damian was inside with Lois. Jon couldn’t help but overhear their conversation as he worked on untangling the cables.

“Ms. Lane, why are you taping leaves to the ceiling?” Damian asked.

Lois glanced at the sprig in her hand. “Oh, this? It’s mistletoe.”

“What is the function?”

“I’m not sure where it originated,” said Lois, “but when you and another person are under it, you have to kiss. Well, you don’t  _ have _ to. It’s just a fun tradition.”

“Interesting,” Damian commented.

Jon was so focused on Damian that he didn’t notice the loose patch of snow on the slanted rooftop until it plopped right on top of his head. From the doorway, Damian snickered.

Jon retaliated by picking up a chunk off the wooden porch railing and throwing it, nailing Damian right in the chest. 

They stared at each other intensely, as if in an Old West standoff, until Lois interrupted. “If you’re going to play with snow, take it outside.”

Damian threw on a jacket and raced to the backyard, where Jon was already knee-deep in the snow. Jon scooped up a handful and packed it tightly together.

“SNOWBALL FIGHT!”

He didn’t wait for Damian to react before he lobbed the snowball.

Damian made a noise between a scoff and a laugh when it hit his shoulder. “Oh, you are  _ on _ , Kent!”

Jon rolled behind a tree as Damian sent a snowball his way. He gathered more in his arm, ignoring the loose flakes that fell down his sleeve. 

“Get out here and fight me like a real man!” Damian shouted.

Jon quickly moved from the tree to a particularly tall snowdrift. 

He pitched a flurry of small snowballs at Damian before ducking back under, saying, “If you wanna stand a chance, you gotta get your own fort.”

When no response came, he curiously peered over the snowdrift. When Damian was nowhere to be seen, Jon began to internally panic.

Until he turned around and came face-to-face with his best friend wielding a long branch.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God. I thought…” he trailed off.

“You thought what?” Damian asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

Jon decided the whole “creepy warrior groundskeeper” thing could wait. He picked up an equally long stick off the ground and pointed it at Damian.

“Damian Wayne, I challenge you to a duel.”

Damian smirked. “In that case…  _ en garde! _ ”

The older boy swung and immediately knocked the stick out of Jon’s hand. 

He didn’t stop there. With a smile on his face and a Hollywood-style battle cry, Damian charged. Jon’s eyes widened and his feet moved almost as if they had their own conscience. As he ran from the boy brandishing the branch, Jon passed his mother, who was standing on the porch with a mug in her hands. An amused smile decorated her face as she watched the scene unfolding in front of her.

Jon cried out, “MOMMY! DAMI’S CHASING ME WITH A STICK!”

Lois hummed as she took a sip. “That’s nice, sweetheart.”

Jon screamed as Damian tackled him into a snow pile, sending powdery white fluff flying in every direction. 

“I am victorious once again!” Damian declared, holding the stick up like King Arthur. 

“No fair!” Jon exclaimed. “You’ve got, like, a lifetime of practice.”

“Then once again, I offer you my tutelage,” Damian said, offering a gloved hand. 

Jon took his hand. “I accept your offer. Just lemme get my stick–”

Before he could walk away, he was yanked back by the hood of his jacket. Damian tossed his own branch aside.

“You cannot wield a weapon if you do not know the basics of combat first,” said the older boy. “Now hit me.”

Jon blinked, like he didn’t hear Damian correctly. “What?”

“Hit me,” Damian repeated. 

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Jon said. “Hitting is wrong.”

“Morality is subjective. Plus, I am wearing three layers of clothing. Now hit me, Kent.”

Jon took a deep breath and clenched his fist—but not too tightly—and swung at Damian. 

Damian sidestepped and said, “Horrible job. You did exactly zero things right.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t wanna hit you,” Jon said.

“And there is your first mistake,” Damian said. “You are holding back. That is not an option in a real fight.”

“But this isn’t a real fight.”

“Practice how you perform. Now, try again. Close your fist tighter and watch your thumb placement.”

Jon did exactly as Damian instructed and swung again—and once again, the other boy dodged.

“I thought you wanted me to hit you!”

“No,” Damian said, “I wanted you to try. That was better.”

He swung and struck Jon on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Jon exclaimed. “What the heck?!?”

“Lesson number two: you must learn to anticipate your opponent’s moves. Read their body language so you know what they will do next and either block or counter. Try it with me.”

“Okay,” Jon said.

Immediately, Damian whacked him in the shoulder again.

“Damian!”

“You have to read it  _ quickly _ ,” Damian said.

Jon rubbed the spot on his shoulder that definitely was going to have a bruise in the morning. 

“I changed my mind, I don’t wanna fight,” he said. “I don’t have a reason to fight. I don’t see why you’d fight either.”

“Royals are on the front lines all the time.”

“But why? Don’t you have an army to do the fighting for you.”

“A leader who hides away in times of strife is unworthy of his people's respect,” Damian said. “Thus, it is my obligation to be well-versed in combat.”

“But… isn’t being a leader your mom and dad’s job?” Jon asked. 

“For now,” he said, “but it will be mine someday.”

Damian sat down on the wooden step. Jon brushed the snow aside and joined him.

“That’s someday,” Jon said. “Right now you’re just a kid.”

Damian sighed and looked up at the rising stars. “I suppose you are correct.”

Jon couldn’t help but admire his friend from the side. The Christmas lights from above gave almost an angelic glow. Snowflakes adorned his hair like tiny diamonds, bringing out his vibrant, hypnotizing emerald eyes. Jon swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and looked away before Damian could notice him gazing.

It was then that he noticed something rustling amongst the cornfields. Though it was far in the distance, Jon was able to make out a shadowy silhouette in the same shape as the man who snatched him in the woods a couple of months ago. The person made no attempt to move closer; he simply stood and stared. Damian, thankfully, didn’t appear to notice. And Jon didn’t want to worry him when he seemed so at ease.

He nudged the other boy. “Hey, you know what’s better than snowball fights and snow forts? Pillow fights and blanket forts. C’mon, let’s go inside.”

“Blanket fort?” Damian asked.

“Yeah,” Jon said. “A warm little hideout. Like the opposite of a snow fort. You’ll love it.”

In their bedroom, as they draped a bedsheet over a circle of chairs, Jon couldn’t help but notice the scar again when Damian’s shirt sleeve rode up. His eyes lingered as Damian tied the sheets to the chairs with Lois’s hair ties. 

Damian noticed and gave him an annoyed look. “What are you gawking at, Corn Cob?”

Damian’s eyes followed Jon’s down to his arm. He pushed the sleeve back down and crawled into the fort.

Jon followed as he stammered, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Save it, Kent.” Damian drew his knees up to his chest.

Jon wasn’t sure what he could say to make things better. So he waited for Damian to speak first.

After a few moments, the older boy sighed and said in almost a whisper, “I was trying to protect my mother.”

“How…” Jon trailed off.

“My grandfather’s aide—his top commander—was going to kill her. I jumped in front of his sword.”

Jon had a sinking feeling he knew who this “aide” was, but he decided to remain quiet. He placed his hand on Damian’s knee. 

“That’s… really brave of you,” he said.

“I abandoned her,” Damian said. “I am a coward.”

“No, you’re not,” Jon said. “You’re not a coward for knowing when you need to run instead of stay.”

Damian rolled up his other sleeve, where the watch was. He unclasped the tiny metal buckle and motioned for Jon to hold his arm out.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked.

Damian replied, “I know it is customary to wait until Christmas Day to exchange gifts, but this moment is far more opportune.”

He carefully wrapped the watch around Jon’s slender wrist.

“Dami…”

“I was unable to find a worthy gift at the mall,” said Damian. “I believe this should be sufficient.”

Jon held his arm up to eye level, marveling at the item. The breathtaking chrysanthemum design glittered ethereally in the light, as did the hands pointing to the time—12:00 exactly.

“Woah…”

Suddenly, his toy store purchase seemed insignificant, but he pulled the box out from under his bed nonetheless.

“This is gonna be really lame compared to yours, but you looked like you wanted it and–  _ umph! _ ”

The wind nearly got knocked out of him as Damian tackled him in a hug.

“Thank you.”

“It’s really nothing,” Jon said. “Just a plastic thingy–”

“No,” Damian responded. “ _ Thank you _ for letting me be a normal person.”

Jon smiled and returned the hug. “Anything for my best friend.”


	7. Chapter 7

On New Year’s Eve, Jon found Damian sitting on the front porch with a blanket around his shoulders and laptop open. A headphone hung from one ear as he focused on a face on the screen and Jon had never seen him as focused as he was when he video called the ROBINS agent. The younger boy carried two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands, one of which he handed to his friend. 

“Is this seat taken?” Jon asked.

Damian shook his head and scooted over. Over his shoulder, Jon recognized the agent—Dick Grayson; they talked before.

Jon smiled and waved. “Hi, Agent Grayson!”

Damian handed him the other headphone just in time for him to catch the man ask, “How’s it going, Jonno?” 

“It’s going good,” Jon replied. “It’s winter break right now so school doesn’t start ‘til next week. What about you?”

“You know, the usual,” Dick said. “Saving the world and looking good while doing it.”

Damian scoffed. “Last week your mission from Drake was to buy a new coffee maker.”

“And it was our most critical mission of the year. Believe me when I say the scariest thing in the world is a decaffeinated Tim,” replied the agent. “So, boys, got any New Year’s resolutions?”

Jon began to explain to Damian, “That’s when you–”

“I know what a resolution is, Kent,” Damian said, cutting him off abruptly. “My resolution is to continue aiding Mother and Father by whatever means necessary.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” Dick said. “What about you, Jon?”

The boy scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno, I didn’t really think about it,” he replied. “Maybe… stop eating muffins in bed?”

“Tt, you will not last two hours,” said Damian, earning a playful shove.

Dick laughed. “So do you guys have anything planned?”

“Nah,” Jon replied. “We live in the middle of nowhere so my family doesn’t usually do much.”

Damian stood up and handed the laptop to Jon, stating, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Jon watched as Damian retreated into the house before turning his attention back to the computer screen. 

“So,” the man began, “You’re his roommate-slash-best friend. How’s he  _ actually _ doing?”

“Good,” Jon replied. “He finally got the hang of that pinky thing. I still don’t know why royals do that.”

“He’s safe?” Dick asked. “There’s no one who could possibly expose his identity or pose a threat?”

Jon hesitated. On one hand, he could and probably should tell the agent about the stalker and being dragged into the woods for an interrogation for reasons obvious to anyone. On the other hand, it’d mean Damian would be relocated. A couple of months ago, Jon would’ve gladly welcomed it. But now… 

“Nope, not that I know of,” he said. “Everything's a-okay.”

Dick squinted. “You sure about that? Because if there’s anything wrong you  _ need _ to–”

“I’m sure,” Jon said quickly. “Say, uh, the battery’s about to die. I’ll have Damian call you back later.”

He shut the laptop lid before Dick could respond and held it close to his chest. Jon took a deep breath and glanced out beyond the house. 

There was no sign of the lurker, but that didn’t stop him from flipping the bird at the empty, snow-covered field.

Curling up under the blanket Damian left behind, Jon squeezed his eyes shut and let his thoughts run their course. 

His main one being that he didn’t want Damian to go. He secretly dreaded the day when the young prince would have to return to his kingdom. Damian was Jon’s first best friend. And… perhaps there was something more? Jon wasn’t sure. He didn’t know how he felt or if Damian felt the same. And with everything else Damian had to deal with, was this really a good time to add on something that Jon didn’t even know a hundred percent about? He ran his fingers through his unruly hair and sighed.

The bench shifted beside him, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Is something wrong?”

Jon looked up, his sky blue eyes meeting Damian’s grass green ones.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” Jon replied. “Everything’s great, actually.”

“Did Grayson end the call?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Jon said. “He had some important mission to get to. Like, ‘the world's gonna explode’ kind of important.”

_ “Shut up, Jon,” _ he mentally chided.

Damian hummed. “That makes sense. He is a busy man.”

Tied to the top of the swinging bench, Jon spotted a piece of mistletoe hanging between them. Damian noticed it too. The two stared at it and at each other until Jon untied the sprig.

“Mom must’ve forgot about this one,” Jon said, setting it to the side.

Damian shrugged. “It is just a silly tradition anyway.”

Jon laughed nervously. “Yeah. Just a silly tradition.”

A hush fell over them. Jon hadn’t noticed until then how close they were. Less than a foot of space existed between them. 

Suddenly, the door swung open and yellow lights flooded the porch. Two jackets were tossed at them, and in the doorway, Lois stood with her arms crossed. 

“If you’re going to play outside, at least wear something warm,” she said, “and as usual, come in before bedtime.”

Damian put on his jacket and looked at Jon.

“Well?” he said. “Are you going to join me? Snowball fights are far less enjoyable with only one person.”

Jon grinned. “Oh, it’s  _ on _ .”

Before he could gather enough snow in his gloveless hands, a snowball hit him dead center in his chest. Jon brushed it off and hopped over the porch railing. As he added more snow to his giant snowball, Jon chased Damian in circles, packing down the loose snow with heavy footsteps. 

“Get back here, Wayne!” Jon shouted. “I seek revenge!”

Damian threw his head back and laughed. “You will never catch me alive, sucker!”

Jon stopped in his tracks and gaped. “Dude, did you just use a slang word?”

“Maybe I did,” Damian replied with a smirk.

Jon wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I’m so proud of you, Dami. You’ve grown up so fast–  _ oomph! _ ”

He was cut off by a snowball smack dab in the middle of his face, right where his glasses met the bridge of his nose.

“Try and keep up, Kent,” Damian taunted.

Jon snapped a branch off a nearby shrub and declared, “Damian Wayne, I challenge you to another duel!”

“Tt. You cannot even land a punch. How can I expect you to–”

Jon curled his fist and punched Damian in the arm hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to leave a mark as soon as the older boy stepped close enough.

“There,” Jon said proudly. “I landed a punch. Now teach me how to use a weapon.”

“Not bad,” Damian remarked. “You are still holding back, but every good warrior must know their limits.”

Jon squealed in delight. “So now will you show me how to use a weapon?”

Damian snapped another branch off the same bush and tucked it into his belt loop as if he was sheathing a real sword. He walked over to where Jon was and began guiding the younger boy’s arms into the right position—one hand over the other on the imaginary hilt, feet evenly spread apart. Jon was glad that the pink in his cheeks could be easily attributed to the freezing cold. 

“When you move,” Damian said, “you always want to be one step ahead of your opponent. If they attack, you parry. If they are exposed, if they have a weak spot, you seize the opportunity.”

When Jon turned around to look at Damian, their noses were almost touching. Their warm breaths mingled with the frigid air. 

“Damian?” Jon asked.

“Yes?”

The words that were on the tip of his tongue disappeared as soon as he opened his mouth. His throat grew dry and the connections in his brain short-circuited like a waterlogged computer. 

“Never mind,” Jon said, looking back at the stick. “What next?”

Damian walked around and faced Jon. “Now I will show you an important component of any combat discipline: blocking. Hit me.”

Jon hesitated but did as he was told. He jabbed his makeshift weapon towards Damian. Damian stopped it expertly with his own stick and pushed back. Jon stumbled backward a couple of steps but regained his balance quickly, planting his feet in the grass beneath the ankle-deep snow.

“Now it is your turn,” Damian said. “Try and block me.”

Without warning, Damian charged, aiming for a strike from above as he leaped into the air. Jon raised his stick just in time to deflect the other boy’s attack. Wood clacked against wood as the younger boy pushed back. Damian hit the ground and rolled away before standing up.

“Not bad, Kent,” he said.

Jon beamed.

“Really? You really think I’m good?” Jon asked.

Damian scoffed. “‘Not bad’ does not mean ‘good’.”

“But it  _ does _ mean that I’m not bad,” Jon pointed out. “I see this as a win.”

Damian smirked and shoved him into a snowdrift.


	8. Chapter 8

For the large part, ignoring his feelings wasn’t the most difficult thing Jon had done. That award still went to enduring the first twenty-four hours after Damian arrived. Once school started and teachers began to swamp them with assignments, it was pretty easy for him to forget about his growing crush on his roommate. 

Until he walked into school on the first day of February. 

Pink ribbons hung like jungle vines from the ceilings. Paper hearts were taped to every locker. White and red confetti littered the floor. Flyers were posted at every corner and water fountain. A few girls held homemade cards and bouquets of roses.

That could only mean one thing.

“Kent, what is going on?” Damian asked. 

The reply came out as a strangled whisper. 

“ _ Sadie’s _ .”

“What?”

Jon coughed and shook it off and kept walking. “The Sadie Hawkins dance. It’s a Valentine’s dance where the whole gimmick is that girls ask guys.”

Damian scoffed. “That is hardly a noteworthy theme. Do girls normally not initiate these things in America?”

“Well, more and more are nowadays,” Jon said, grabbing the water bottle clipped to his backpack, “but there’s still this sexist idea that guys are supposed to make the first move. Something about being in control, which I think is stupid.”

As he refilled it at the water fountain, Damian asked, “And what if I do not want a girl to ask me?”

Jon took a swig. “Lemme guess, you’re waiting for a real-life princess or something?”

“Not even close,” said the boy. “Women never piqued my interest.”

Jon nearly choked on water. “Wait, are you saying you’re into guys then?”

“Precisely,” Damian replied. “I hope that is not a problem?”

“N-no, no, not at all,” Jon stammered. “It’s cool. Super cool, actually.”

As they walked past the gym, where people were setting up for the dance, Damian peered inside. His face contorted in disgust at the scattered balloons and cheap plastic decorations placed willy-nilly. 

“You call this a dance?” he asked. “Dumpster possums could put together a nicer setup.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Like you could do a better job.”

“I can, in fact. Part of being a prince is knowing how to host the proper ball,” Damian replied.

“‘Course it is,” Jon said. “If you care so much, why not join the committee?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“No, wait, I didn’t mean– aaand he’s gone.”

Jon watched from the doorway as Damian marched up to an eighth-grade girl with glasses and a high ponytail.

Damian snatched the clipboard from her hand. “You have been relieved of your duties. I am now the head of this pitiful committee.”

Jon cringed and covered his face, daring to watch only from between his fingers.

“Excuse me?” the girl demanded. “Who do you think you are?” 

“I am your replacement, seeing as how you are unfit for your role. You may go now.”

The girl took her clipboard back and said, “I’m not gonna let some pesky sixth-grader tell me what do. Now get out before I tell the principal.”

“Tt, have it your way.” Damian turned around to leave. “But do not come to me if nobody shows up due to your horrendous layout and clashing colors.”

Jon was ready to leave. He was ready to get to class and pretend he witnessed none of that with the hopes that the girl wouldn’t talk bad about Damian to the rest of the school. 

“Wait,” the eighth-grader said. “You can’t be head of the committee, but if you wanna help, we could use a second opinion.”

“Excellent,” said Damian. “Kent, come. You shall be my assistant.”

“Wait what?”

Damian grabbed Jon by the sleeve and dragged him out to the middle of the gym, in full view of twenty-something members of the Sadie Hawkins committee.

“I require an assistant,” said Damian. “Someone to take notes, run photocopies, bring me coffee–”

“My folks don’t let us drink coffee,” Jon reminded.

“... Juice box, then.”

“I’m not gonna be your assistant, Damian. I don’t think you’re even allowed to have one.”

“He can have whatever he needs to get the job done,” the girl said. “Damian, right? Your first job is gonna be to color coordinate the streamers.”

“Tt, I suppose it is a start.”

“Awesome.” The girl turned to a pair of people carrying a folding table and began barking commands at them, leaving Damian and Jon.

Jon crossed his arms and glared. “Seriously, Damian?”

“Listen, Kent.” Damian placed a hand on Jon’s arm, sending a small shiver down the latter’s spine. “No matter how many balls–”

“Dances.”

“–a person has gone to, each one is unique and deserves special attention. Even if it is being held in a garbage hole such as this.”

Jon hesitated. “I guess you’re right. So what’s our first job?”

Damian turned Jon towards the direction of the cafeteria while glancing at the box of supplies.

He said, “My job is to color coordinate. I have my work cut out for me as is. I require sustenance. Garden salad with low-fat dressing on the side and a juice box—white grape, if possible. If not, Hawaiian punch.”

“You’re being such a prince,” Jon remarked. “What next, you want me to shine your shoes?”

“Do not patronize me,” Damian said. “Now go, there is much to be done.”

As he waited in line with his lunch money in hand, Jon found himself not complaining about Damian as much as he used to. Granted, that could’ve been due to time or Jon’s “normal kid” lessons. The prim and proper princely behaviors that he once found downright annoying were now… almost endearing. 

Stupid feelings.

Stupid crushes.

Stupid stuck-up, bratty,  _ adorable _ Damian Wayne.

He almost didn’t notice Georgia with an armful of king-sized chocolate bars until he literally ran into her. Their foreheads bumped as they fell. The candies scattered across the floor.

“Shoot, I’m really sorry,” Jon said as he scrambled to gather them. “I was distracted. I didn’t see where I was going.”

“You’re good,” said Georgia. “I, uh, was actually looking for you.”

Jon blinked like an owl and pointed to himself. “Me?”

“Yeah.” She glanced away and traced the toe of her shoe in little circles. “There’s something I wanna ask you.”

Jon had a feeling he knew where this was going, but he let her continue. Georgia held out the candy bars almost like a bouquet. 

Their eyes met again and she asked, “Jon, will you go to Sadie’s with me.”

Even though he foresaw it, the question hit him like a pile of bricks. He never saw Georgia Bakshi as anything more than a friend—someone to swap snacks and play dodgeball with. She was kind and funny and smart and anyone else would be lucky to have her. But Jon’s heart wasn’t in it and he didn’t want to lie to her. She looked at him expectantly. 

“Listen, G,” he said. “You’re a nice girl and I’m super flattered, but I have to say no. It’s not that I don’t like you, I just don’t… like-like you in that way. Maybe we can still go as friends, if you want?”

Though Jon could sense her disappointment, she still smiled. “Yeah, I totally get it. My sister can give us a ride if you and Damian wanna come?”

He scratched the back of his neck with one hand and shoved the other in his pocket. “Awesome, I can text you the address.”

His gaze traveled from her in the direction of the gym. The doors were wide open and they could both see Damian lecturing some poor student while knee-deep in red ribbon. Georgia cocked her head in that direction and a knowing grin broke out on her face.

“Well?” she asked.

Jon looked back at her. “What?”

She playfully shoved him. “You know what.”

“Is it that obvious?”

Jon wanted to think he was good at keeping secrets. And he was… for the large part. At least with other people’s secrets. 

Georgia replied, “To everyone except him.” She chuckled. “God, how did I not see it ‘til now? Aren’t you two, like, roommates or something?”

“I mean, yeah–”

“And we both know y'all aren’t related,” she added, before leaning closer and whispering, “I didn’t wanna say anything, but he looks an awful lot like that prince from Nanda Parbat.”

Jon froze. He quickly glanced over his shoulder before pulling her into the janitor’s closet.

“Where did you get this information?” he asked in a low voice.

Georgia pulled an old copy of  _ People _ magazine out of her backpack. On the cover, albeit slightly faded, was Damian, standing between a man and a woman both in their early forties. He was a striking resemblance of both, having the man’s strong features and the woman’s brilliant green eyes and tan skin tone. Jon took the magazine in his hands and flipped through.

“My sister and I were cleaning the basement day before yesterday and I found this,” she said. “It’s from a year ago, so it doesn’t tell me anything new. Why is he here?” 

Jon motioned for her to speak quieter. He peeked through the slats, double-checking that no one was outside the door before he answered. 

“He’s not safe in his home country. He’s hiding out here and no one is supposed to know he’s a prince.”

“Oh,” she said. “So it’s witness protection? Like in those spy movies?”

“Yeah, exactly like that!” Jon replied. “You gotta promise not to tell anyone.”

“Hey, I get it. I ain’t no snitch,” she said. “Swear it on my entire snack stash.”

“You’re the best, Georgia,” he said. 

The girl hummed. “I’m about to become better than the best.”

She pushed him out of the closet and marched him straight to the gym before he could protest. 

“Yo, Damian,” she called. “I asked Jon to the dance. Jon, tell him why you said no.”

She shoved him towards Damian, who barely caught Jon as the momentum sent him flying like a meteor. 

“Kent, what on Earth is Bakshi on about?” Damian asked. 

“Nothing,” Jon said, pulling away and brushing himself off. “I, uh, just wasn’t sure if Mom and Dad will let us go to the dance. Tickets are expensive.”

Georgia snorted. “No, they’re not.”

He sent her a half-serious glare. “Don’t you have math tutoring right now?”

“That’s Wednesdays,” she said, “but I get it. I’ll be over there if you need me.”

Damian raised an eyebrow.

Jon chuckled nervously. “I got your juice box.”

* * *

“Target is confirmed to be the kid.”

“Are you positive?”

“I recognize that watch anywhere. It’s Prince Bruce’s—the only one of its kind. And Damian gave it away to his idiot friend.”

“Pathetic.”

“I’ll send you the time and coordinates at which to move in. There’s a dance where neither of his guardians will be present.”

“Perfect. We’ll bring the boy back then, and he can rot in a prison cell with his parents.”


	9. Chapter 9

The dance was on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day. Lois had helped Damian and Jon pick out nice clothes and the boys created a group chat with Georgia to figure out a schedule. Damian (and Jon, by extension) worked two straight weeks to make sure the decorations and food and music were perfect. Everything that needed to be done was done.

Well, almost everything. Jon had been trying to work up the nerve to ask Damian, but things always seemed to get in the way. Sometimes it was other students or teachers, which Georgia tried to keep at bay as a top-notch wingwoman. Other times, it was his crippling self-doubt telling him that he stood no chance and shouldn’t even bother trying because  _ come on, Damian’s a freaking prince, why would he go for a boring, regular farm boy like Jon _ ?

The Friday before, it was Clark bursting into the room and surprising them with baseball tickets just as Jon was about to ask the question.

“It’s the first game of the season. We’re up against the Gotham Knights and I bet Damian hasn’t been to a baseball game,” Clark said.

“You would be correct,” Damian replied. “Baseball, for the large part, seems to be mostly an American sport. I have never seen it apart from television.”

Clark directed the next part at Jon. “What do you, say, kiddo? Up for some good old fashioned B-ball?”

Jon laughed. “Pretty sure that means basketball, dad.”

“Back in my day, it didn’t. Get ready, we leave in ten minutes.”

As soon as Clark left the room, Damian turned back to Jon. “You were saying?”

Any confidence Jon had built dissolved like a snowflake in spring. 

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Nothing important.”

Not only did Clark get them tickets to the game, but he also got them seats in the dugout, close enough to see the players sweat and complain about the referee’s bogus calls.

“Perks of working for the Planet,” Clark said. “That and our usual sports columnist is on maternity leave.”

Jon nodded, only half-listening as he watched another batter strikeout. “That’s cool, Dad. Pass the cotton candy?”

“You’re welcome,” Clark replied, sarcastic yet playful, as he handed over the plastic bag.

Damian pointed to it. “What is that?”

“Cotton candy. Want some?”

Damian tore off a piece from the fluffy cloud and popped it into his mouth. He grimaced. 

“It tastes like pure sugar,” he said.

Jon chuckled. “You really didn’t get out much, did you?”

“Boys,” Clark interrupted, standing up. “I told Lois I’d get a picture. Get in here.”

Clark stretched his arm as Damian and Jon squished into the tiny frame.

“Say ‘cheese’!”

Clark snapped a couple photos on the digital camera, capturing the Kent duo’s dopey wide grins and Damian’s resting neutral (and slightly unimpressed) face before settling back into his seat. 

“Perfect,” he said. “This one can go in the kitchen.”

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers. A helicopter hovered over the stadium with a camera that linked to the Jumbotron. 

“As our first inning comes to a close, let’s take a moment to appreciate the beautiful crowd. It’s still a tad chilly here in Metropolis, but that’s not stopping all these folks from coming out here today.”

Damian flipped up his hood and averted his eyes when the chopper passed over. Jon subtly passed him a pair of sunglasses clipped to his shirt. 

As the helicopter panned towards the balcony above them, Jon spotted a familiar white streak among the sea of baseball caps and jerseys. Next to the assassin was a gray-haired man who appeared to be the least friendly-looking person Jon had ever seen. 

“Dad, scoot over,” he said. “I gotta use the bathroom.”

Jon made his way from the roaring stadium into the concrete tunnels. Technically, only employees were allowed, but it was the quietest place the boy could manage since all the players were on the field. He slipped in and double-checked that it was locked before pulling out his phone.

He cursed himself for not remembering Dick’s personal number after so many video calls. That left him searching the internet for help.

He typed “ROBINS” into the search bar.

It returned a million articles about the animal.

Jon groaned and tried again, this time typing in “ROBINS agency”. He cheered silently as it brought him to the organization’s website. He scrolled down until he found a number to dial.

“Please, please, please pick up…” he begged as the phone rang.

_ Click _ .

“You have reached the front desk of the Reserve Operatives Bureau for International Noble Security. This is Barbara speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hey,” Jon said. “I need to talk to agent Dick Grayson. Can you link me to him?”

“Woah there,” she said. “Who’s asking?”

Jon hesitated and answered, “An acquaintance.”

“You sound awfully young,” Barbara said. “Is this a prank call?”

“No, no, I swear it’s not.” 

Jon tiptoed and checked the peephole to make sure no one was outside before continuing.

“My name is Jonathan Kent,” he whispered. “I’m Damian’s friend.”

“Who?”

“Damian Wayne? Er, you might have him as Damian Al Ghul? Prince of Nanda Parbat?”

A pause.

For a second, Jon thought he had the wrong number. 

Keyboard sounds in the background followed.

And then: “Please hold.”

* * *

“Dick, there’s a kid on the phone asking for you,” Barbara said, rolling her wheelchair through the doorway. “Says he’s a friend of Prince Damian’s, named Jonathan Kent. Know anything about that?”

The agent, who was previously leaning back in his desk chair, abruptly straightened up. “Put him through.”

Dick pressed a button on his desk phone, and before he could say anything he was met with a twelve-year-old rambling at a mile a minute.

“Woah, woah, woah, Jon, slow down,” the man said. “Walk me through the beginning. What’s going on?”

“Damian’s in danger,” Jon said. “Well, not like  _ immediate _ immediate danger, but still immediate enough danger that you have to do something.”

Dick leaned forward and listened intently.

“I should’ve told you this before and I’m sorry,” the boy continued, “but there’s this assassin guy who’s been lurking around and he asked me about Dami. I saw him again today and this time he was with an old guy. I think it might be Damian’s grandfather but I’m not sure. All I know is that Damian is not safe here.”

“Keep going.”

Dick grabbed an empty sheet of paper and jotted everything down in his messy handwriting as Jon detailed the predicament, from an incident in a forest to an upcoming Valentine’s dance. The boy sounded hushed and hurried, like he could be caught at any moment. The sound of muffled baseball music and a sports commentator in the background further solidified Dick’s theory.

“Where are you guys right now?” Dick asked.

“Metropolis. We’re at the baseball stadium,” Jon replied. “I’m in a bathroom. Damian’s watching the game with my dad.”

Just as Dick was about to ask a follow-up question, another call came through.

“I’m sorry, I gotta take this,” he said, “but I promise I’ll do everything I can to help. Just… hang in there, okay?”

Though he couldn’t see it, Dick could sense Jon’s fervent nod. 

“Okay, and I’ll call if I see anything else,” Jon said.

“Alright, please keep me updated. No more secrets.”

“Scout’s honor,” the boy said. “No more secrets.”

Dick waited for Jon to hang up first before he answered the other caller.

“Grayson speaking.”

There was a crackle, as if the other person was in a tunnel with a shoddy signal.

“Ra’s Al Ghul has taken the bait. I’ve got him where we want him and I know the perfect time for you to move in.”

“Let me guess,” Dick said. “Is it a middle school dance?”

Perplexed, the caller asked, “How did you…?”

“Got another tip,” he said. “You’re not the only one looking out for Damian. Though you could’ve been more covert. You were spotted by a child on numerous occasions. And threatening a twelve-year-old? Really?”

Dick sensed that the other man was rolling his eyes and couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” the other guy replied, “that was uncalled for. Anyway, I’m sending the area map to you and Drake right now. Here’s the plan: we move in tomorrow evening on my signal. I will get King Ra’s in place with the boy as bait and you guys will come in and do your thing. Ra’s Al Ghul will be brought in for his crimes, the prince and princess will be released from prison, and Damian will be cleared to return home.”

“Excellent,” Dick said, folding the paper and tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Thank you, Agent Todd.”

He hung up the phone and switched on the walkie-talkie at his belt. The static noise filled the office room until he spoke.

“All assigned units, get your gear ready and meet on Helipad Four in t-minus three hours. And wear something nice. We’re going dancing.”


	10. Chapter 10

“…And loop and pull,” Lois said. “ _ Viola! _ Now was that so hard?”

“Yes,” Jon pouted. “Why can I just use a clip-on?”

“No son of mine is going to a dance without a proper tie,” she said. “Especially when his date is a prince.”

Jon choked on his spit. “Date? I don’t have a date.  _ Whatareyou– _ ”

Lois laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re afraid of what your dad and I might think: don’t be. We love you no matter what.”

“That’s reassuring, but…” Jon fiddled with the metal cufflinks. “He’s not my date. I… I didn’t have the guts to ask.”

“The dance hasn’t started yet,” she pointed out.

Jon gazed out the window, where Damian sat on the swinging bench, wearing a freshly pressed suit and holding a phone in one hand like a miniature businessman, his silhouette sharp against the magenta sunset. Any moment now, their classmate would be arriving to give them a ride to the dance. 

“Is this seat taken?” Jon asked.

Damian shook his head and scooted over. 

“She said she will be late,” he said. “Her sister had to refill the gas.”

Jon blinked as his eyes adjusted to the lighting.

“Huh?”

Damian held up his phone with a text conversation between him and Georgia.

“Oh.”

Jon leaned back. He noted how the cushions he sank into were worn down from all those years. He also noted how Damian sat up perfectly straight, and how the chrysanthemum in his coat pocket matched the one on Jon’s watch. Jon absentmindedly wondered how he got the flower. They weren’t in season yet.

“I wonder what they mean,” Jon murmured.

“What?”

“Chrysanthemums.” He traced the one on the watch.

“My father told me what they meant, a long time ago, when he first got that watch,” Damian answered quietly. “But I… I do not remember.”

“He can tell you again when you see him.”

“If.”

“ _ When _ ,” Jon corrected. “You will see him again.”

And though Jon wanted Damian to be happy, though he wanted the boy to go home and see his family again, the thought also sent a pang through his chest. Perhaps, he reasoned, the only thing that could be worse than Damian inevitably leaving, would be if he left before Jon could let him know how he really felt.

“Damian, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

Jon fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. It was now or never, he thought, as he looked into those stunning green eyes.

“Ever since you got here, things have been… different,” he said. “A good kind of different. It feels like…”

Damian moved closer. “Like what?”

Jon’s words caught in his throat as his heartbeat sped up. Their faces were close—so close, to the point of no return. Their noses brushed. Jon could feel Damian’s breath mingle with his. Behind them, someone closed the curtains from the inside. 

Jon swallowed. 

“Like this.”

His hands made their way to Damian’s jawline and in one swift move—one split second of pure, unadulterated courage—Jon closed the gap between them. His eyes slid shut as he felt Damian lean in, the other boy’s hands resting at the nape of Jon’s neck. Jon drank in the feeling and he realized that this was how Disney princesses must’ve felt at the end of every movie. It was as if the stars finally aligned. That  _ this _ was where he was meant to be.

They pulled apart a few seconds later; their foreheads rested against each other. 

Jon smiled. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

Damian smiled back. “As have I.”

A short honk and bright white headlights caught their attention. 

“Our carriage awaits,” Jon said.

He took Damian’s hands and led the way to a brown sedan. As they passed Georgia in the passenger’s seat, she raised an eyebrow. Jon confirmed her suspicions with a nod and climbed into the back seat.

The dance was… underwhelming.

Even with all of Damian’s meticulous planning and hard work, it was still just a middle school dance. Sweaty kids jumped around the gym as a SoundCloud-quality DJ played  _ Y.M.C.A _ for the second time because of popular demand. Half the boys weren’t even wearing actual suits, merely those t-shirts with a tuxedo image on the front, and Jon felt considerably overdressed. At one point, Georgia finished a party-sized bag of cheese puffs all by herself. Jon could tell Damian was equally unimpressed, as the latter lingered off to the side.

Through the crowds and Party City dance floor lights, Jon spotted a familiar shadowy figure leave the gym. He handed his punch glass to Damian.

“I have to use the bathroom,” he said. He leaned over to Georgia and whispered, “Keep an eye on him.”

The music faded into a dull thrum as Jon slipped into the dimly lit hallway. He loosened the tie, finally able to breathe for the first time since he arrived. The large metal doors on both ends of the corridor were locked shut, sealing him off from the rest of the building. Though the lockers and water fountain and classroom doors were the same, the place felt markedly different from a typical middle school.

An elongated shadow caught Jon’s eye, stalking like a monster in the night. Jon ducked behind a trash can and watched as it exited the back door and headed straight for the forest.

Against his better judgment, he followed.

A twig snapped under his foot as he came to a familiar clearing. The grass sparkled as moonlight bounced off. The sky mirrored it, with the Milky Way shining like glitter spilled on black cloth. Jon might’ve been able to appreciate it more under different circumstances.

The bushes rustled. Jon shined his phone’s flashlight in that direction.

The phone was knocked out of his hands and cold metal pressed against Jon’s throat before he could even realize what was happening.

Through the dark, he recognized a white streak. And he started to see red.

“You!” Jon exclaimed. “What do you want?”

Before the assassin could answer, another figure emerged from the trees.

“Leave him, Jason. He is not the one we are looking for.”

Jon recognized him too: the old man at the baseball game—the power-hungry tyrant king Damian was hiding from. The king’s robes almost but didn’t quite brush the ground as he strode to where the other two were. 

The assassin—Jason—moved the weapon away from Jon’s neck to point at his wrist.

“He’s not,” Jason stated, tapping the watch with the tip of his sword, “but he will lead us straight to the prince.”

“No, I won’t,” Jon said. “I’m not gonna let you hurt him.”

He was yanked forward by his tie.

“Not everything is what it looks like,” said Jason, turning a dial on what appeared to be a small radio at his belt. “This is official business between the royal family members of Nanda Parbat.”

Jon headbutted the assassin in the nose and wriggled out of the tie, only to be slammed against a tree by the king himself.

“By the power of the throne, you will do exactly as told,” Ra’s hissed.

“Too bad your throne doesn’t matter here,” Jon replied. “You’re on my turf now.”

Jon clenched his hand and swung at the king’s face. He didn’t need to see if it connected. The sound of bone cracking told him enough. He shoved Ra’s out of the way just in time to see Jason’s fist hurtling at him like a meteor. Jon dodged and rolled to the side, not caring anymore that he was getting his clothes dirty. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you, kid,” Jason said. “You don’t know what you’re doing, so stay out of it.”

“Like hell, I will!”

Jon snapped off a low-hanging branch and gripped it firmly in his hands, standing in a battle-ready stance. 

Jason sighed almost remorsefully before swinging his blade at the boy. 

Jon blocked with the branch. 

He tried to push back—tried to parry.

The razor-sharp blade sliced clean through and the pieces dropped to the ground. 

Jon stepped back,

and tripped,

and stumbled.

The half-melted snow sludge seeped through his clothes and chilled him through the bone. His shoes slipped against the slick mud as he attempted to scamper away. He was stopped when the sword embedded into the dirt, mere inches from his head.

“I’m asking you one last time,” Jason said, “either tell us where the prince is or stay out of our way.”

He felt a sharp sting on his cheek. 

He winced as his hand brushed over the spot. When he pulled back, his fingertips were sticky and stained scarlet.

Jon looked back up. 

Jason towered over. The sword, raised above his head, glinted menacingly in the light and Jon gulped. Cornered against a tree trunk with no more tricks up his sleeve, he closed his eyes and prayed for a quick and merciful death.

_ FWAP! _

He opened one eye and saw Jason cursing and brushing snow off his face. Jon followed to the source and his eyes widened.

Standing at the edge of the grassy circle, Damian stood defiantly, like a kid standing up to his tormentor after years of being mistreated. His unbuttoned jacket flapped behind him like a superhero cape and for the first time, Jon saw the warrior prince he’d been living with. Damian scooped another handful of brown snow-sludge and hit Jason again, this time on the side of the head.

Damian growled, “Nobody touches my best friend.”

Ra’s turned to him and smiled like a literal demon—something Jon could only wish to unsee.

“My dear grandson, how nice of you to finally join us.”

“Release him,” Damian ordered, “and I will make this easy for all of us.”

“No!” Jon shouted. “You can’t go with them!”

Damian picked up the broken stick fragments. “Tt. Who said anything about surrendering?”

Jason muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before Jon felt himself being tugged by the shirt. The flat side of a tiny pocket knife was pressed against his artery. Ra’s did the talking as Jason held Jon in a headlock.

“You know how this goes, Damian,” said Ra’s. “Give up now and I will spare your little friend.”

“Lies,” Damian said. “You would never pass up the chance to show off your prowess.”

Ra’s chuckled. “Perhaps I am getting a bit predictable, but my methods are tried and true. Jason, you know what to do.”

Jason looked from Ra’s to Damian to Jon to the crackling walkie-talkie, all while his knife hovered over Jon’s carotid. 

“Well?” Ra’s demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

Jason pulled the knife away and released Jon from his iron grip. Jon ran to where Damian was.

“Are you okay?” the older boy asked.

Jon nodded.

“Me too,” Damian said.

“What is the meaning of this?!?” Ra’s roared. “Jason, get them!”

Jason drew his sword, but instead of going after the kids, he stabbed it into the ground.

“Sorry, Ra’s,” he said, “but I was never on your side.” 

From under his robe, Ra’s unsheathed his own katana. “Must I do everything myself?”

Damian stepped forward and pulled the sword out of the ground. As the flecks of dirt fell away, the two boys’ reflections in the blade shone side by side, clear as day. Jason stood behind them, like a big brother defending his siblings against playground bullies.

He told the boys, “Get behind me. Backup’s on the way.”

For a moment, it looked as if Damian was actually considering it before he answered, “No. I am done hiding.”

Jon stepped up, hands ready in a fighting stance. “And I’m with you all the way.”

With an impassioned battle cry, Ra’s surged forward. The sword clashed against Damian’s with a loud  _ CLANG _ . Metal scraped against metal and tiny sparks flew as they pushed against each other, competing for the upper hand.

Jon’s fist connected with Ra’s ear as he leaped onto the man’s back. He heard another cracking sound below as Jason’s punch collided at the ribs, but by then Jon was already rolling away from being thrown off. 

Ra’s howled as Damian’s sword sliced his hands. Damian kicked the weapon, sending it flying through the air.

“Kent, heads up!”

Jon dove forward and caught the sword just as Ra’s charged at him. Jon slid past and whacked the man once over the head with the flat side of the blade, and then once more on the side with the hilt. 

Ra’s fell to his knees; Jon pointed the sword at his chest. Damian joined, doing the same, as they cornered the king. The sound of a helicopter engine grew closer.

“Checkmate,” Jon said, lips quirked in a smile.

A rope ladder dropped along with two agents—one that Jon recognized, one that he didn’t. Damian and Jon moved aside as Jason cuffed Ra’s and a younger agent read aloud the arrest warrant.

Jon felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You guys did good,” Dick said. “I’m proud of you, especially for putting up with Jason’s weirdness.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Jason exclaimed.

Jon turned to Damian. “Does that mean you’re going home?”

Damian pursed his lips and frowned. “I suppose.”

Jon had expected Damian to be over the moon at the prospect of seeing his family again. He didn’t expect him to look almost… disappointed. Jon took Damian’s hand.

“You don’t seem too excited,” Jon said. “What’s up?”

Damian gazed upon the scene in front of them; Ra’s Al Ghul was being escorted into the helicopter by the pilot. Jason was talking to the younger agent, who was typing something on a tablet. Dick stepped away to give the boys some space.

“I came here to fulfill an obligation. To act as a normal civilian until I was allowed to return home, for my parents’ sakes,” Damian said, running his thumb over Jon’s knuckles. “I did not anticipate meeting anybody that I would miss.”

“Dami…”

“They must process my grandfather and secure a conviction,” he continued, “after which I… I must return home.”

Jon cupped Damian’s face in his hand. 

“I understand,” Jon said. “You have a role back home. I’d never be upset at you for that.”

Damian glanced in the direction of the school. 

“Processing takes time, you know.”

Damian looked up and met Jon’s eyes.

“You think we can still catch one last dance?” Jon asked.

The two couldn’t help but share a smile; a laugh, as they stood hand in hand. 

It was an odd thing to do, knowing that their time together was running out; that someday they’d be forced to say their goodbyes before parting ways, the fond memories they built turning a little more bittersweet with every mile; that someday one will assume the crown and the other will go about an ordinary existence and that they will likely never see each other again; that someday one will marry a fellow royal and the other will sweep a lucky someone off their feet, and that someday the seemingly unreal story of a prince and a normal boy will be but a short chapter in their chronicles.

But that was someday.


End file.
